


On the Edge of the Scythe

by Robin_Mask



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Drama, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Physical Abuse, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1218313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Mask/pseuds/Robin_Mask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grell was different. He was beautiful like a doll . . . like a living doll, a bizarre doll . . . but untameable. There was an unbridled passion, as bright as the red that painted him. At first the Undertaker wanted to paint him red with blood, but now . . . he wanted more than blood. He wanted his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# Chapter One

****

“Huh?”

 

The Undertaker stared hard at the foot that rested on the makeshift ‘ball’.

 

It took a long minute to recognise what was happening. He was still bent rather low and his arm was still outstretched, his eyes narrowed expectantly on the skull he had been using to knock over an array of beakers, but the skull – instead of continuing on its perfect pace and accurate trajectory – was trapped under a well-shone shoe. He wasn’t used to people intruding on his games, but in this case he found himself a little intrigued. It was more than possible to lose a match but win a game.

 

He looked curiously at the boots the owner of the foot wore, admiring the red-and-black pattern and the slight heel at the back . . . practical and yet fashionable, enough to give the illusion of height but wide enough not to throw one off-balance in battle. The boot moved up to a leg cloaked in a sensible pair of trousers, a slight bend to the knee as if the owner sought to make a simple action into a flamboyant pose, and that went up further to a rather thin – yet well looked after – torso. He was wrapped in a beautifully blood-red coat that seemed to make the body beneath it appear as fragile as a spider’s web. The red-hair fell about the owner in a shower of satin.

 

The Undertaker smiled dangerously and stood up to full height. He steepled his fingers together in front of his face and looked over them with eyes hidden behind a shaggy fringe, and as he looked he giggled in such a manner that it caused his guest’s expression to change drastically. The redhead’s head lowered, his green eyes narrowed in anger, whilst his eyebrows came upwards as if in pain. He seemed to pout just slightly . . . in an almost adorable way . . .

 

“My, my,” the Undertaker said darkly, “the lady does not look pleased to see me.”

 

“I don’t typically make it my place to socialise with violators and deserters.”

 

“Only demons and children, I take it?”

 

Grell flinched visibly. His green eyes seemed to flare for a moment before he kicked the skull hard at the Undertaker . . . there had been a time when the silver-haired man would have caught it cockily in his hands, or perhaps even allowed it to hit him. He had willingly seemed to take any abuse given to him, because it was more convenient than actually stopping said abuse. He had once even gone so far as to let Grell steal his clothes and bury him in salt. How things had changed . . .

 

The Undertaker spun quickly to one side and allowed the skull to fly past him. It smashed into a glass jar that held within its depths a human kidney, and upon impact a stream of foul liquid spewed out upon the floor. The kidney hit the ground with obscene splat. The skull itself broke into pieces. No longer would soliloquies be sung to its lipless mouth, no longer would it symbolise the process of death . . . no longer would the Undertaker be able to turn it upside-down upon his desk and use it to hold his pencils and pens as he worked upon his paperwork. Such a waste. 

 

“Now that wasn’t very friendly, was it?”

 

His smile faded into a faint upturned line. It was something that by definition _was_ a smile, but yet held a dangerous glimmer of anger and frustration. He looked to Grell and instinctively reached inside his black cloak to pull out a long _sotoba,_ the gesture was fluid and graceful, and he couldn’t help but notice the twitch of Grell’s eye as the scar just underneath the younger man’s eyebrow stretched in a rather interesting way. The redhead changed his expression quickly though, so that now his teeth were bared like a smiling shark, and his hands brought out his chainsaw as if from air.

 

“Oh? You want friendly?” Grell asked with a sort of bloodlust in his eyes. “I would have thought inserting a _hard_ object into a lady’s skin, _breaking_ through that barrier, and _taking_ without permission something that cannot ever be fixed was as far from ‘friendly’ as one can get . . . shall I mark _your_ face with an ugly scar, too?”

 

“ _Ugly_ scar? Oh? I’m hurt. Am I really that ugly?”

 

The Undertaker pushed back his hair and exposed his green eyes. Grell at once blushed and turned his head to one side with a frown, caught between wanting to throw himself at the dangerous man and eviscerating him with his chainsaw. It was such a pure mixture of love and hate that it made the Undertaker laugh in amusement, thrilling sadistically in the conflict that waged in Grell’s mind.

 

“Why, I could wrap you around my little finger,” the Undertaker said, lifting his left hand to wave his scarred pinkie finger at Grell. “Shall I try?”

 

“I would be delighted if you did. I owe you for marring my beautiful face!”

 

“Anyone else would say it’s an _improvement_ , my lady.”

 

“Then allow me to return the favour!”

 

“Please. _Amuse me_.”

 

Grell was the first one to make a move.

 

He revved his chainsaw and bent forward as he ran fast at the Undertaker. His chainsaw pulled backwards so as to come full force at the other man’s chest, but the Undertaker had expected this much. He pulled to one side and raised a _sotoba_ to divert– rather than block – the oncoming attack. The move forced Grell to fall forward and knocked his scythe to one side, which allowing the deserter to spin around and come behind him, taking advantage of his blunder.

 

The _sotoba_ fast traded places with the rogue Shinigami’s death scythe, and with this scythe the pale man drew it back ready for a fast and deadly blow, willing to rip apart Grell from behind in a rather violent way. He aimed his scythe for the scar of the coat. He aimed for the ripped back that had been sewn together rather hastily and amateurishly. He would slice Grell where Grell had sliced Madame Red, and he would relish in the act. He would stab him in the back. He thrust forward his scythe and aimed perfectly for his desired spot, a low laugh muffled behind his lips and he smiled almost warmly, waiting for the blade to hit . . .

 

It was then that something knocked him back.

 

His scythe had been poised to hit, but something large and red had struck from nowhere and knocked his scythe hard enough to force him backwards, leaving Grell safe from harm as the redhead fell hard upon the ground. Grell rolled over onto his back and looked across the funeral parlour to the Undertaker with a beautifully submissive stare, before glaring harshly and climbing to his feet with a growl. Ronald posed in front of him with a cocky laugh.

 

The blond boy looked over his shoulder and winked to Grell and raised his hand to his forehead, as he made a rather arrogant ‘V’-sign for victory. He leaned against the bar of his lawnmower and looked over at the Undertaker with a cocky grin, waiting for Grell to climb to his feet before making a move or a sound. His superior merely flicked his chainsaw and cricked his neck. He observed their opponent carefully as the two men stood side-by-side, looking like a perfect team. He remembered well the problems they encountered the last time they fought, but last time there had been a demon interfering. This time there would be an equal match.

 

“You didn’t think Miss Sutcliff would come alone, did you?” Ronald asked.

 

“So William finally sent you to collect me, did he?” The Undertaker let out a long giggle as he wandered over to a medical dummy, holding it from behind akin to a shield or possibly even a lover. “Now that _is_ amusing! Does he really think that the two of you can cart away me? I wonder if he knows the risk. I wonder if he is aware that even Death must die . . .”

 

“Sadly we’re not here for _that_ ,” Grell snapped.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes, although I would _love_ to have you _bound_ beneath me as I _interrogate_ you for any and all information I think pertinent to our case . . . I wonder what sounds a man like _you_ would usher. They say loud men like you are often the most quiet when it comes to . . . _obtaining_ information. I wonder how fast I could make you _spill_?”

 

The Undertaker laughed to himself as he observed Ronald’s reaction. The blond Shinigami slumped his shoulders and narrowed his gaze to his older colleague with a twitching eyebrow, his frustration seeped through in waves as he patiently – and maturely – held his tongue and refrained from chastising the man whom was ranked higher than him. They made a good team: Ronald kept his companion in check, Grell kept his friend alive. They balanced each other well and brought out the best in one another. He was almost disappointed that they _didn’t_ want to fight.

 

“Miss Sutcliff,” Ronald said calmly as possible, “we talked about ‘professionalism’?”

 

“Oh please! You’re one to talk! You just _posed_ for goodness sake!” Grell disposed of his death scythe and flicked his hair over his shoulder. “You can’t declare victory with a colleague on the floor and the enemy standing tall! That’s not a victory, that’s basically a stalemate!”

 

“Youngsters today,” the Undertaker chirped in, “no sense of professional style, eh?”

 

“No one asked you!” Grell and Ronald snapped.

 

The Undertaker lifted his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender, and then returned his scythe to its previous hiding place. The two Shinigami seemed mildly frustrated with one another, more so with him, and he had to admit to an equal feeling of annoyance where the two were concerned. Thanks to them and Sebastian his test had been compromised and his results were now somewhat unusable, he owed them just as much in terms of revenge as they perhaps owed him.

 

He slid upwards onto his desk and silently watched the two as they bickered with one another. Ronald pulled out a list and insisted that Grell check it, both of them sent nervous glances over to the Undertaker as they did so, making sure he was still where they left him. He waved. Grell scowled and returned to looking at the list. It was times like these where the Undertaker wished he still had access to the lists, because it was certainly frustrating that someone else was privy to information that he was not, especially when it drove them to his funeral parlour when he was essentially in hiding. It made him curious.

 

“I’m surprised it took an anomaly with your list for you to come find me,” the Undertaker said softly with a soft laugh at the end. “It’s enough to make a humble, old undertaker feel so very unloved . . .”

 

“Well, it isn’t like Miss Sutcliff would _really_ want to drag you in now,” Ronald said curiously, handing Grell the list flippantly whilst the redhead snatched it away. “Plus Mister Spears says we have bigger fish to fry right now. It’s what we came here to talk to you about . . . long shot, I’ll admit, but I’m still young so for me the cups are half full! You know how it is.”

 

“Hmm, indeed. Still . . . a lady can never forgive a scar upon her face, especially not when it mars her beauty so cruelly . . . how could a lady forgive such a man enough not to wish to drag him in for questioning?”

 

“Well, you know what they say,” Ronald said cheerfully, “you got to best her to bed her – _hey_! That hurts, Miss Sutcliff!”

 

“Serves you right!”

 

Grell smacked Ronald again hard across the head with a blush.

 

He clenched his hand in a tight fist and kept it positioned before him as he glared at his subordinate; his other hand sat upon his hip as he cocked his body to one side, and he glared darkly at Ronald with a passionate fury. He was clearly incensed, but equally embarrassed by such a sensitive confession to their acknowledged foe, and yet there was something rather handsome about the blush upon his cheeks.

 

The Undertaker laughed quietly to himself as he watched the pair curiously, sliding from his desk to make his way around to the kettle that sat by the area set aside for dissections. He filled the teapot to brew and watched as Ronald rubbed his head childishly in pain and apologised profusely to the redhead in embarrassed tones, whereas the redheaded man simply folded his arms and looked away with his head high and his nostrils flared. Red hair, red coat, red _cheeks_. . . the Undertaker laughed as he thought about why a man so in love with the colour red would also be so in love with the concept of passion, before reminding himself of the shade that passion often took in the midst of its height . . . the human body was capable of so much!

 

He carefully poured the tea and arranged some biscuits upon a plate, watching from the corner of his eyes as the two men bickered and fought. It was difficult to make out details from the distance, – being pathetically shortsighted as the rest of his kind – but he could see their general shapes well enough. Still, regardless of the bad blood between them, that was no excuse for being a bad host. He knew well that more flies were caught with honey than with vinegar.

 

“Would you both care for some refreshments?”

 

He carried the tray over to them, at which point Ronald brightened up and smiled cheerfully. The young blond man half-closed his green eyes in delight and cocked his head to one side, before he raised his hand high in a signal of thanks, a gesture that warmed the Undertaker’s heart a little. It was only when the young man reached out to grab a biscuit that Grell hit his hand hard and moved to stand in front of him, both hands resting on his hips as he practically growled down at Ronald.

 

“Why do I always get paired with you?” Grell snapped. “You do not accept ‘treats’ from people who previously tried to _kill_ you! Oh, it’s so frustrating being paired with a greenhorn! I swear, it’s almost like you _want_ to be poisoned! Luckily for you Grellis here to teach you! You’re my darling little Ronald! Don’t you worry, I’ll protect you from the big, bad man!”

 

Ronald looked longingly at the tray. The tea was steaming hot and seemed to be a rare blend, albeit served in a strange looking beaker, and the biscuits looked so fresh and crisp that they were surely freshly baked and homemade. He wasn’t one to let his stomach rule his head, nor was he one to watch his figure, but he had worked really hard the past few days – especially with all the overtime – and he wanted just one little break. It hardly seemed fair to decline what was being offered, but Grell was probably right . . . he shouldn’t be accepting treats from the Undertaker of all people.

 

“I suppose you’re right,” Ronald said forlornly.

 

“Of course I’m right!” Grell snapped, reaching out for a biscuit on the tray. “Those beakers he serves the tea in he uses for dissection –”

 

“I _do_ disinfect them first,” the Undertaker said with a hint of sadness.

 

“ _Not the point_!”

 

“I have mugs somewhere,” the Undertaker said, as he removed one hand from the tray to touch his lip in thought. “I can get some of those if the lady prefers? If it’s a touch of class that one wants, I could even find some teacups and saucers . . . I think one of my clients relatives left some in a box of their possessions. I haven’t gotten around to donating them to the workhouse yet.”

 

“See, Miss Sutcliff!” Ronald chirped. “We can have tea in cups! Come on, it’d be a nice break and we could be here for a while anyway. Plus I think that’s Earl Grey in there, he’s even serving the good stuff!”

 

“Do you even know what the words ‘it could be poisoned’ mean?”

 

Ronald frowned as he watched Grell take a bite of the biscuit. His colleague could be such a hypocrite at times, always chastising him for things that he himself did, and even Mister Spears seemed to share the philosophy of ‘do as I say and not what I do’, but – to Ronald – it was highly unfair. He wondered if it were a seniority thing, where just because they were older that they thought they knew better.

 

“ _You’re_ eating the biscuit though,” Ronald said in an almost whine. “Why can’t I?”

 

“Oh, hush you!”

 

Grell grabbed another biscuit and shoved it roughly into Ronald’s mouth. The blond glared darkly and dangerously to his superior, but he merely accepted the biscuit and began to munch upon it happily. He looked from the two longhaired men to the tray and shrugged, he then grabbed a beaker of hot tea and wandered over to a coffin and sat down to enjoy his snack.

 

Grell let out a long and heavy sigh as he dropped his head and rubbed a hand through his hair in exasperation. He seemed genuinely frustrated by Ronald and yet at the same time he had an affectionate liking towards the boy. It was what had made the Undertaker’s battle so much easier to win that day on the Campania . . . any attack upon Ronald would have his ‘mentor’ furious, he would quickly chastise Ronald for any perceived mistake, but then quickly come to his rescue. The Undertaker had assumed this was just their dynamics in battle, but it seemed to control their professional and personal lives too.

 

The Undertaker walked around to his desk and placed the tray down, waving over Grell who – with a reluctant sigh – followed suit. The redhead threw himself down into a dusty old chair, with a rather melodramatic flair, before he draped his legs over the arm of the chair and let his head fall back with a long moan. He seemed to lament his situation. The Undertaker ignored him with a chuckle and began to open cupboards and boxes in search for the teacups he had mentioned, after washing them he proceeded to give tea in a manner Grell could not object to.

 

“Enjoying your poisoned tea, Miss Sutcliff?” Ronald called over.

 

“Oh, will you just _shut up_!”

 

“If it is poison we’re in the best place considering,” Ronald chirped again. “Still, this is something we’ll be leaving out of our reports, right? I don’t think Mister Spears would like to know we accepted afternoon tea at the Undertaker’s.”

 

Grell sat up abruptly and pulled himself into an actual sitting position, his feet on the ground with his legs crossed in an elegant and feminine manner. He sipped his tea politely and watched as the Undertaker came up beside him, sliding onto the desk and leaning a little into his personal space . . . it was rather creepy, but – if he remembered his time as Angelina’s butler well – he knew that the silver-haired man enjoyed making others uncomfortable. He especially seemed fond of touching Ciel and making the aristocrat squirm. He seemed to know what irked others and what got under their skin . . . it was certainly a ‘talent’ of sorts.

 

“Let’s just get to work for once, shall we?” Grell snapped.

 

The redhead forcefully put the teacup down and pulled out his list. It was just his luck that the tea spilled and small patches of liquid dropped onto his thigh. He growled loudly and tried to hold back the urge to rip out his death scythe or scream abuse at the Undertaker, because the Undertaker was now laughing and Grell allowed no one to laugh at him! It was just plain offensive that someone could find his stained clothes amusing, especially when that person was a traitor.

 

It was only when the laughter suddenly felt a lot closer, and he felt a rather curious pressure on his thigh, that he looked away from the list to see the Undertaker’s green eyes right before his . . . he then felt a hand rubbing a cloth against his leg, in a rather inappropriate position that left Grell blushing all the more. The redhead had enough. He punched the Undertaker hard and growled aloud.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

 

“The lady had a little spill,” the Undertaker giggled out. “I wouldn’t be a gentleman unless I helped her to clean up the mess I helped to make, or would you prefer to rub it out yourself?”

 

“You -! _I should paint you red_! You _vermin_!”

 

The Undertaker rubbed his jaw where the redhead had stood and punched him, yet still laughed with a dangerous smile when Grell’s hand scrunched the list up in his tight fist. He stood abruptly. He was shaking in rage and his face was flushed a dark red. It was hard to tell if Grell were enraged by the presumption that the Undertaker found it okay to touch him, or if he were actually rather embarrassed by the fact he _liked_ such a close proximity and assertion. The Undertaker could only giggle as he prepared himself for a very hard and intense fight.

 

“Miss Sutcliff!” Ronald called over, downing the end of his tea. “We have work to do. The sooner we get it done the sooner we can get out of here, I have a party with the office girls later on tonight! How am I supposed to get a hangover unless I’m on time to drink the night away? You can save your fight for later, right?”

 

“You’re lucky, Undertaker,” Grell spat. “I could have ripped you to shreds.”

 

“Hmm? Your scythe doesn’t seem _that_ scary to me,” the Undertaker said, as he gazed away in thought. “Now if it were as large as _mine_ then I’m sure it could easily cleave me in two, but as it is I doubt you could even make me feel it, let alone ‘cut me to shreds’. Do you still want to try?”

 

Grell seemed sorely tempted, enough to pause for a long moment to consider the implications of fighting their foe in the midst of the funeral parlour, but as he caught sight of Ronald – ready to intervene should the need arise – he stopped and instead resorted to behaving . . . indeed a last resort. He flourished forth the list and waved it rather manically and violently in front of the Undertaker’s face.

 

The silver-haired man took a hold of the paper between two long, black fingernails and observed it with a rather cold stare. It was clearly a ‘to-die’ list, but from immediately looking upon it there was very little of anything unusual, unless of course you were familiar with the underground and the recent news . . . it wasn’t surprising that someone like William would have noticed the discrepancies, but what was odd was that the Shinigami felt it their place to get involved. It had to be the suspicion of demonic activity that drew them to it, but with such circumstantial evidence this seemed to be going overboard.

 

He signalled for Grell to take a seat and waved his hand a couple of times rather indifferently, much to his amusement he saw Grell fall to his seat and lean both elbows upon the desk, his head in his hands as he looked up at the Undertaker with wide eyes and a rather innocent expression. It would have been adorable had it not been for Ronald coming up behind Grell, as he gave the Undertaker a very dark look.

 

The Undertaker hadn’t realised until that moment that he had been staring with curiosity at Grell, observing him with a professional interest. It seemed that Ronald not only had gotten the wrong impression, but that he was also highly protective of his mentor. The Undertaker smiled to himself and tried his best not to let his muffled giggle turn into outright laughter. In a gentle movement he leaned inwards and made to hand Grell the list . . . the list that Ronald snatched back.

 

The Undertaker frowned.

 

“So what can you tell us about the names highlighted on the list?” Ronald asked.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Nothing?”

 

“Nothing . . . without something in exchange for my services.”

 

“You want payment?” Ronald hung his head and sighed. “Can we claim reimbursement for that, Miss Sutcliff? It’s got to count as work-related expenses, plus I’ve got to buy at least one round at that party later . . .”

 

“He doesn’t want money,” Grell said tersely. “He wants a joke.”

 

The Undertaker let out a creepy laugh as he leaned across the table into Grell’s personal space, wagging his finger in front of the man’s face as Grell glared daggers at him. Ronald watched with a morbid interest, but his gloved hand tightened considerably on the back of the chair and he leaned forward also, his eyes never moved from the mortician in case some form of attack came suddenly and unexpectedly. Grell started to feel claustrophobic.

 

“Don’t worry, I know how to make someone laugh,” Grell said with a smile.

 

“Yeah,” Ronald said, leaning back with a confused pout, “problem is I don’t think you _do_ know when you’re making someone laugh, Miss Sutcliff _._ I mean it’s that difference between laughing at someone and laughing with them . . .”

 

“Look, if he wants a joke then I’ll give him one!”

 

The Undertaker looked at the redhead in amusement. The other man stood up so abruptly that Ronald was forced to jump backwards in order to avoid being knocked in the face by Grell’s head, but soon he was on his feet with one hand on his hip and his devilish smile piquing the mortician’s curiosity. He tried not to smile too much as Grell sauntered around him, hips swaying so that he looked rather tempting, and he couldn’t help but swallow as Grell trailed a hand over the Undertaker’s chest as he walked. He seemed to stroke him languidly before he strolled to the other side of the room. It was a rather tempting sight as much as it was interesting.

 

The redhead stopped before a cloudy mirror that hung on the wall, and as he stopped he withdrew some lipstick from his coat pocket and painted his lips, before puckering in front of the mirror and winking at this reflection. He then spun around and leant against the wall beside the mirror. He gave the Undertaker such a sultry look that the silver-haired man shuddered and giggled just a little . . .

 

“I know a joke when I see one,” Grell said softly, one hand on his hip stroking a path upwards where he began to loosen the bow upon his neck. “I wonder if our friend here sees a joke too? Look in the mirror, Undertaker. _There’s_ the joke.”

 

Grell stopped his sensual teasing and used both hands to point to the mirror on his left, the mirror that was now directly opposite the Undertaker. The silver-haired man saw his own reflection and heard the low groan of disbelief from Ronald, heard the cocky laughter from Grell, and heard his own rumbling laughter starting low and deep in his chest, bubbling forth into a dangerous chuckling. He leaned back against the desk and grabbed a hold of its edge with both hands . . . staring hard at Grell.

 

“It’s funny that you would dare to say such a thing, my lady.”

 

“Then you find it funny. _I win_.” Grell came forward and stabbed the Undertaker hard on the chest with a pointed finger. “Now, as per the terms and conditions of the usual agreement, I want information. _Now_.”

 

The Undertaker sighed and sat on the desk with a half-amused smile. The redhead had undone his bow enough that a slither of skin was visible at his chest, and he was so furious that his cheeks were flushed a visible red. He looked handsome, and he was the only person willing to fight the Undertaker or stand up to him in such a manner, and he seemed so _unafraid_ too . . . it was curious indeed. It made him wish to withhold information just to see what Grell would do, but something told him it would be better to stay on the man’s good side . . . just this once.

 

“Very well,” the Undertaker replied. “What do you wish to know?”

 

“Well,” Grell said, pouting just a little, “whatever you know would be great. We’ve had such a strange spate of murders across the country lately, which we think may have been committed by demons . . . the problem is we can’t find the bodies _or_ the souls! If I didn’t know better, I’d have said it was that doll fiasco all over again! I mean who does such a thing? Well, probably not _you_ , I mean _you_ had no use for the souls, so maybe we _can_ rule the dolls out.”

 

“Er, Miss Sutcliff,” Ronald interrupted, “Mister Spears says not to rule _anything_ out.”

 

“Oh, be quiet, you! Look, those foul beats have _not consumed one single soul_ . . . or if you _were_ involved then you kept the souls, but it’s not as if you’d _tell_ us, which makes this all rather pointless . . . anyway, what demon acts like that? No one spends that long _devouring_ their food only to _spit_ it out at the last minute, a demon should at least be polite enough to _swallow_ whatever soul it _ejects_ from a body.”

 

“Wow,” Ronald mumbled, “I didn’t think even _you_ could make murder into an innuendo. You’ve outdone yourself, Miss Sutcliff.”

 

“Why, thank you!”

 

The redhead smiled warmly and flicked a lock of long, red hair behind his back. He seemed pleased with himself, almost as if he had achieved some great feat, and the way he turned his body was almost feminine and rather arrogant. It was as if he didn’t feel the Undertaker was worthy enough an adversary to keep an eye upon, and yet the way he looked so admiringly over those red glasses at the Undertaker gave the silver-haired man shivers. He felt as if he were being devoured visually. He let out a genuinely amused laugh and tried his best to stay still, refusing to let Grell know just how interested he truly was.

 

“What I can tell you is simple,” the Undertaker said in sudden seriousness. “I have recently . . . _re-educated_ myself and as such I have learned about many _principals_. I hope that you both realise that ‘need’ and ‘want’ are very different things. I can tell you what you want, but not what you need . . .”

 

Grell turned and bent forward a little so that his eyes were at level with the Undertaker, who was still practically sitting on the desk. Grell’s red hair fell forward so that it now rested upon the leather of the Undertaker’s high-length boot. It trailed down the older man’s thigh and ended slightly beneath his knee, and when Grell let out a grunt of frustration and pulled back the Undertaker took his chance and grabbed a hold of that hair.

 

Grell was suddenly pulled forward again, almost as if on a leash, and suddenly he felt a spark of fear . . . it wasn’t the fear he felt when Sebastian aimed for his face, or even when he was in battle with a man set to kill him, it was the enjoyable sort of fear . . . the adrenaline rush that one got with fear, but with the knowledge that he was safe. It was a relinquishing of control, but without truly being controlled. He gulped when the hand reached further up, virtually near the root, and it was only when he saw someone’s foot dangerously in front of his face that he screamed. Suddenly the hold on his hair was completely removed.

 

“Don’t touch Miss Sutcliff so freely,” Ronald snapped, lowering his leg and ignoring the Undertaker as the mortician rubbed his hand in pain. “You want to touch him then you’ll have to pay the price like everyone else.”

 

“ _Bastard_! What do I look like to you? A hooker?”

 

“Ah! That came out wrong, Miss Sutcliff! What I meant was that –”

 

The Undertaker frowned as he watched the redhead beat the younger boy about the head, yelling all sorts of abuse at him as the blond backtracked considerably, desperate to make amends and explain just what it was that he had meant. It turned out ‘pay the price’ meant ‘earn his friendship’, but a lack of good rhetoric had soon become the least of Ronald’s problems as Grell eventually spun around with arms folded and began to sulk.

 

“You! _Talk_!” Grell snapped, pointing a finger at the Undertaker violently.

 

The Undertaker looked to Ronald who was rubbing his neck in embarrassment, the poor boy didn’t need any more hassle than what he already had: “Hmm, I suppose I can give you some information.”

 

“Ah, that’s a relief!” Ronald gasped.

 

“If you must know,” the Undertaker said, picking up a globe and spinning it in his hand for the sheer pleasure of doing so, “it isn’t just missing bodies that you ought to be looking into. Humans are so strange . . . _a rose by any other name_ . . . it’s as if you change the name and you change the soul, but I wonder if that is true? My lady here was _so_ depressed and sad when she played the role of a butler . . .”

 

“I’ll be playing the role of your mortician if you don’t hurry up!” Grell shouted.

 

“Hmm, well,” he said, lifting the globe high to stare into its depths, “if the lady puts it like that . . . your records show that the living have died, but their bodies and souls can not be found. The figures do not add up, hmm? I find it interesting that you would automatically assume a demonic cause, when there are so many other potential ways of securing a soul to a deceased body . . . you are _partially_ correct though. There has been something otherworldly taking place, something . . . _unusual_. You can get many answers if you just ask the right people: the victims.”

 

“I don’t see _how_ ,” Grell said bitterly. “The dead don’t talk.”

 

“No, but they do _paint a portrait_.”

 

The Undertaker put down the globe and walked about the room, his hands tracing every surface as he went, small giggles escaping his lips as he wandered about. Grell’s eyes never left his frame, he watched the silver-haired man with a keen interest, whilst Ronald – on the other hand – seemed to glare daggers at the man, only watching him insofar as to judge his movements and anticipate any potential attacks. It was nice to be the centre of such attention . . .

 

He stopped in the centre of the room and dropped down besides a coffin. It was freshly polished and freshly varnished, and inside was a fresh corpse . . . there was something of a foul stench when the Undertaker reached down and slid open the lid, a mixture of the iron scent of blood and the bitter stench of disinfectant. Grell winced and covered his nose with his sleeve, whilst Ronald pulled a face that should have belonged on a child half of his age. The Undertaker merely laughed and lifted the body to a sitting position, whereupon he sat beside it and wrapped his arms around it like an old friend, supporting its weight as if it were entirely natural to do so.

 

“Have you forgotten about the cinematic records?” He took a hold of the body’s hand and made it wave at Grell. “How else do you think William has such certainty of suspicious involvement?”

 

“The cinematic records!” Ronald and Grell shouted in unison.

 

“I can tell you this for certain,” the Undertaker said, laying the body back down to rest, “that perpetrator certainly seems to have been busy recently. There’s so many lost bodies and lost souls, some from all walks of life, you would have to be really _studious_ to catch them all.” He laughed a little behind the sleeve of his robe. “Jekyll and Hyde never had it so good! Look how beautiful she is, how at peace, no one lies in death even if she certainly is lying. Her body speaks only the truth. If you want to know more then you’ll have to pay the price.”

 

“Another joke?”

 

“Hmm, do I want to hear another joke?”

 

The Undertaker came forward and stood before the two Shinigami with a wide and disarming smile, his fingers came together in a steeple as he cocked his head to one side and chuckled under his breath. He observed the pair carefully for a long moment. There was a lot to be said for a joke, but there was also a lot to be said for making connections and obtaining information . . . he had been close enough to Vincent Phantomhive to learn all he needed to about the inner workings of the aristocracy, but surely an inside link to the Shinigami would be useful as well?

 

“No, I think not.” He reached out and took a hold of Grell’s chin firmly, before snapping it to one side in disdain. “Revenge would be sweet, but information would be sweeter still . . . the lady is welcome to come back alone should she require more information, but for now I have work to do. I am sure you both have work to do too, do you not? Please, come again soon! Repeat customers are what I _live_ for!”

 

“Let’s go, Miss Sutcliff. We have enough to make Mister Spears happy for now, and personally I don’t trust this guy . . . if he wants a repeat performance then it sure won’t be from either of us, right?”

 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right . . .”

 

Grell sighed and ran a hand through his hair, before heading to the door of the funeral parlour. Ronald followed obediently, albeit he cast a final dark glare at the Undertaker, as if warning him what would happen should he follow the pair, but the Undertaker merely stayed in place. He watched them curiously as they left with the information that they needed. The redhead cast a strange glance back at him before leaving the building, and it assured the Undertaker that the other man was definitely wrapped in his web ready to be captured.

 

“Bye, bye,” he said as a final parting, “please visit my humble abode again soon.”

 

He laughed heartily as the door closed . . .

 

“I’ll be expecting you.”


	2. Chapter 2

# Chapter Two

****

“That man is nothing but a slave-driver!”

 

Grell threw himself into his office-chair with a great sigh. It was a rather exaggerated gesture that required him to throw his legs in the air and toss his head back, and when he spun around his hair appeared to trail behind him in a crimson waves, the tips brushing against the office floor as he moved. Ronald only hoped that he didn’t catch his hair under the wheels of the chair, because that would probably be more painful than all the melodrama was worth . . . 

 

“This is really cutting into my beauty sleep,” Grell said with a sigh.

 

“Yeah?” Ronald mumbled. “Guess now I know why you’re such a heavy sleeper.”

 

“Jerk! You should be nicer to your superiors!”

 

Ronald quickly leaned back in his chair to avoid the stapler that was thrown at his head. He felt lucky that Grell never ever meant to hit him, but he had also learned the hard way that his colleague didn’t really have many qualms about hurting the people who insulted him, regardless as to whether they were considered friends or not. There had been one or two occasions where Ronald had nearly been hit, just because Grell didn’t exactly care if his aim was slightly off or not . . . once where Eric had walked into the office just as Ronald ducked. Eric sported a cut forehead for a week after that. It was kind of like harmless sibling banter, but a little more tiresome at times.

 

The truth was that they were a both a little tired, both more than a little annoyed, and – as much as they adored one another’s company – they were starting to feel a little more than claustrophobic and trapped by their work. It just wasn’t fair. They had places to be, people to meet! It was almost as if management didn’t _care_ that Ronald had a party to go to or that Grell had a hair appointment to keep, and – frankly – he was a little fed up of being made to work overtime. Why couldn’t they just _hire_ new staff? Ronald was still young, yeah, but he deserved _some_ breaks!

 

“He has a point though,” Ronald said, as he sat back up and propped his head up on his desk with his hand. “I mean we checked the cinematic records of the dolls we could find, right? We even checked the records of the humans who knew the missing people on our list. It seems like something big is going on, Miss Sutcliff.”

 

“Oh, there’s always some _big_ and _hard_ case with our William. _Honestly_ , I have no idea what’s going through that man’s head sometimes! If we haven’t found out where these soul-filled corpses are already, then we never will!”

 

Ronald heaved a sigh and stared at the blank page on his desk . . .

 

It was always a rather sad thing when _Grell_ had a valid point. He respected and adored the older man like a role model, but he had to admit that Grell’s sole interests in life seemed to be love and romance. If he couldn’t make it into an innuendo, then he simply seemed disinterested by the whole thing, and the only time he seemed to want to work was when he was when he was avoiding overtime or suspension. It made Ronald wonder if there were any point in _trying_ to get the paperwork done, or the formal letter of apology, and that maybe they could just sneak out instead.

 

“Last time we obeyed William _perfectly_ ,” Grell snapped, as he snatched an emery board and began furiously perfecting his nails. “Not one word of thanks! All we get is a smack on the head and a promise of more paperwork! Well, _this_ time I – _what on Earth are you using to write with_? _Give that back_!”

 

Ronald felt his left eye twitch a little as Grell snatched the pencil from his hand. Okay, so he hadn’t exactly asked to borrow the thing, but it was just a pencil and – to be honest – it was actually rather useless. It didn’t even write properly and couldn’t sharpen without breaking. If anything, Grell should have been happy someone had taken it off his hands for him, because the redhead couldn’t have gotten any real usage from it. That was the problem with sharing a desk a workspace though. Inevitably a pen would roll over onto the other one’s desk, or a book on one’s side would be used to prop a wobbly leg on another . . . at least this was just a pencil.

 

It was starting to get rather late, too. He had hoped to have the paperwork finished by eleven, maybe make it to the party just in time to be ‘fashionably late’, or maybe even just late enough to be chivalrous by escorting one of the more inebriated office girls back home . . . it had been ages since he last had a real date. Grell seemed to be content flirting with anyone he considered to be attractive, whereas William seemed to be as frigid as an iceberg, they didn’t seem to understand Ronald’s position at all.

 

Still, it was almost worth it to see Grell looking so lost and flustered. The redheaded man had been furious with the Undertaker since he had scarred his face during the fight back on the Campania, since then they had both been searching for him and trying to research what these dolls really were, what they were capable of. William seemed to find their existence a blasphemy. Grell seemed to find the _Undertaker’s existence_ a blasphemy, but Ronald . . . well, he actually wondered if the Undertaker himself wasn’t some sort of doll. There was something not quite right about him. It was as if he had once been a Shinigami, then became rogue and . . . _wrong_.

 

They had found him though. They had found him and questioned him about the recent discrepancies on the list, but it hadn’t really led to anything at all, in fact there was just something about the way the mortician had mentioned his ‘principles’ that made it sound as if he were hiding something. It was a good thing that the rogue Shinigami had covered his eyes. Ronald didn’t want to _think_ about what would have happened if they had been on show. Grell was _still_ blushing now, even as he furiously glared at Ronald and looked ready to blow. What would have happened if he had seen those eyes?

 

“You do _not_ use a lady’s eyeliner to write a report!”

 

“How was I supposed to know? It looks just like a pencil to me.”

 

“Oh, you ought to show some more consideration! The very last thing you want to do is to turn into a mean old stickler like William! I could be doing something _useful_ right now, rather than stuck here writing boring reports! The very _least_ you could do is to _ask_ before using something that isn’t yours! Even that rogue brute had more manners than _that_.”

 

“Well, time belongs to everyone,” Ronald said quietly. “The sooner I get something to write with, the sooner we can get out of here, right? If you could just pass me a pen instead, maybe even just an old pencil or -”

 

“Hmm, maybe we should go back for more information?”

 

Grell smiled a little this time. It was small, barely noticeable, but Ronald was used to the little clues in his superior’s appearance that revealed so much about his thoughts and feelings. Grell was an unusual case . . . he _liked_ people who could put him in his place, people strong enough to provide him a challenge and keep him on his toes, and the Undertaker had done just that. He gave as good as he got. It was the reason why Grell would dreamily stare off into space, and the reason why every now and then he would frown and pout. He probably didn’t know _what_ to feel.

 

It showed that the Undertaker had left _some_ impression upon the red-obsessed Shinigami. The little giggles that escaped Grell’s lips, the reddening of his cheeks and pursing of his lips, it showed that he was interested in him . . . _fascinated_ by him. It wasn’t just for shallow reasons either. No, the Undertaker knew what he was doing. He knew to piss off Grell _just enough_ to get his attention, but to be _nice enough_ to show that he was available and open to the other man’s advances. The best part was that Grell felt _annoyed_ by the sexual advances, the little flirtations, because he probably felt that the Undertaker was beneath him, but that someone would _dare_ to flirt anyway, that they had the confidence to risk Grell’s ire . . .

 

“I don’t think the invitation extended to me, Miss Sutcliff,” Ronald said.

 

“Well, I can’t very well go _alone_ , can I?”

 

Ronald gave a slight pout and leaned back in his chair. He felt lucky when Grell threw him a pen, because it gave himself to put to his lips in thought. It wasn’t as if they were being watched, because the heavy workload caused William to ‘supervise’ from his office, and they had been taught to ‘prioritise’ from the moment of training. He might not have been able to hear the music at the party, but he could hear the ticking of the clock above Grell’s head. It was taunting them both. It sounded like a pendulum slicing through time, destroying their social lives.

 

“Well, who’s to _say_ you went alone?” Ronald asked with a cheeky grin. “Mister Spears is in his office checking over the end-of-month expenses. How about it, Miss Sutcliff? I don’t mind being in two places at once, do you? It’s a really swell party!”

 

“It would be good to teach that brute a lesson,” Grell admitted.

 

“You could interrogate him for information, too. Like – er – _beat_ him into – ah – _submission_? Imagine him all red and bloody . . . all because of you!”

 

“Hmm, you make an interesting point . . .”

 

Grell seemed to ponder for a long moment what Ronald had said.

 

He pressed a finger to his lips and looked towards his desk, what he saw probably convinced him more than anything to play hooky just once. Half of Grell’s desk seemed to be a dedicated make-up station, complete with an adjustable mirror and an array of beauty items that Ronald still to this day didn’t understand, whilst the other half was filled to the brim with a chaotic assortment of paperwork. The redhead had been on desk-duty during his suspension, so the work had really piled up, and it was getting late into the evening . . . it would take _days_ to get past _that_ mess.

 

Grell spun around and looked into his make-up mirror with a smile. He began to pick up something that looked to Ronald like it could easily be some sort of torture device, before pressing it to his eyelashes and humming a little song to himself. Ronald wanted to ask why his senior was dressing up, but he didn’t want to risk a telling off or a smack across the head. It was usual for Grell to want to make himself up for certain people, but for the ‘violator’ and ‘deserter’?

 

“I’m sure William won’t miss us if we only go for a _little_ while,” Grell said with a relatively sneaky pout. “What say you and I take a little break? You can go dance with the ladies and I can go dance with death!”

 

“You got it, Miss Sutcliff!”

 

* * *

 

Grell slammed the door before him with a loud bang.

 

 _Honestly_ , it was absolutely ridiculous for William to have sent him on such an errand in the first place, let alone to then afterwards stick him with a mountain of paperwork and expect Grell _not_ to get just a _little_ sidetracked. There were too many unanswered questions to just sit around at some desk! It wasn’t as if he could have been accused of being ‘unprofessional’, especially not when _he_ had been the one to keep Ronald in check, but none of that mattered to William, did it?

 

He didn’t understand Grell at all! Grell was so full of passion and life, of strength and determination, he wasn’t _designed_ to write reports and stamp signatures, and he was a man of action and adventure! He was supposed to be on the _field_! Oh, he could expect that _William_ to lock himself away in the office; that man had such a stick up his arse that a damned puppet was less wooden than _that_ man, but Grell wasn’t like that at all! He knew how to let go and have fun, but he also knew what it meant to be _undercover_ and _get information_ from people. It was just that the Undertaker was so different . . . he wasn’t like anyone Grell had ever met.

 

He always referred to Grell with feminine pronouns, never talked down to him, and never physically assaulted him . . . but now . . . now he was _flirting_ withhim! He had _scarred_ him in battle, and yet now he was _flirting_! He had gone from a submissive wallflower into a towering inferno of a man _filled_ with power! This was a man who could hold his own against three otherworldly creatures, yet a man who allowed himself to be pushed around by others for convenience’s scent. Why had he never shown this side of himself until now?

 

“Where the bloody hell are you?” Grell snarled. “You can’t keep a woman waiting!”

 

The mortician had to know that Grell was in his little den. If the slamming door hadn’t given him away, the blasted bell above his head ought to have. Still, the Undertaker had not even deigned to look up from the parchment on his desk. What was so interesting about a piece of parchment old enough to be make papyrus look modern anyway? It was so yellowand disgusting. Grell had seen corpsesmore appealing than _that_. The strange man was even using a feather quill . . . ‘idiosyncratic’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

 

“Hmm, red or black?”

 

The Undertaker appeared to be talking to himself, whilst the tip of his feather quill lazily hovered over two small vials of ink . . . one red and one black. He seemed to be drawing a figure on the paper, but the black body and waistcoat were incomplete, no head or arms adorned the figure, which made it seem to be something from a fashion-designers portfolio. It was creepy. What did the Undertaker care about waistcoats and trousers and ankle-boots?

 

“Ah, I see,” the silver-haired man looked up with a smile, “red it is.”

 

“What would you have done if that bloody Chinese man had walked in?” Grell snapped. He put his hands on his hips and glared at the Undertaker who undid the stopper of the red vial. “I see that you forgot any other colours in this ridiculous art collection of yours.”

 

“Well, my lady . . . I only have two colours available to me.”

 

The Undertaker paused for a long while. It was only when he took the time to look up – slowly and with an eerie smile – that Grell caught sight of those dangerously green eyes, eyes that were both incredibly alluring and yet extremely unsettling. There was a moment when Grell almost felt distracted by those eyes, almost lost in them, but then he noticed that they weren’t looking _at_ him, but _through_ him. _What was that fool looking at now?_ Grell followed the gaze with a dark glare, but what he saw – the object of the Undertaker’s attention – made him wince.

 

There was a half-opened coffin not far to the side of Grell in the dusty parlour, in which sat a corpse that seemed relatively fresh and in fairly good condition. Attached to the corpse were an array of tubes and needles. It seemed that the Undertaker had been drawing blood from the corpse into small phials, but he had also opened up an organ that Grell couldn’t quite identify, an organ so rotten that the bile within it had turned black, and – as such – given him the black ‘ink’ he so needed.

 

“Always resourceful,” Grell muttered.

 

“Waste not, want not.”

 

The Undertaker giggled and stood up slowly from his chair.

 

Grell made sure not to move from the door as the other man fidgeted and fiddled about with the items on his desk, because to show his back would be to offer up his life. It was true that the mortician had showed some interest in him, but there was no way of knowing whether that interest was in his body or in _dissecting_ his body, but – frankly – Grell didn’t want to find out. If it came down to a fight, this time the rude man wouldn’t win! Grell would make sure of that!

 

“It’s a little late for a visit, hmm?”

 

“You _do_ like to state the obvious, don’t you?”

 

It was certainly true that it was getting late, so much so that Grell would surely have to make up _some_ excuse to pass this off as mere ‘overtime’ to Will, but the truth was that they really did need answers and those just didn’t come from staring at a piece of paper on a messy desk. True, there was a certain curiosity concerning this strange man of contradictions, but how could he find any warm emotion for someone who treated him so badly? He was strong though, handsome too . . .

 

It was getting rather dark outside, so that the sky was black and the stars were likely to be more radiant than ever, but it was very hard to stargaze with the London smog blocking the skies and the Undertaker’s parlour too dirty and dingy to even _consider_ staying for long. Grell wondered how it could be colder inside than it could out, but perhaps that was _why_ the older man slept within coffins some nights. It was probably the only way to stop the cold from penetrating his skin! How did this man ever entertain any living guests? Grell shuddered from the cold and tried not to feel any fear as he faced down such a dangerous creature.

 

“You _did_ say to come back for more information,” Grell said bitterly. “I can trust you to keep your word, can’t I? It’s rather indecent to _lure_ a lady with false promises, to _plead_ with her to come alone, only to then _force_ some hidden agenda on her.”

 

“Hmm? I got the impression that no one is _forced_ upon my lady.”

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Nothing, just that my lady seems awfully willing to seek out dangerous men. If one of those men thrusts his scythe inside her, or disables her violently, it hardly seems fair to call it ‘force’ when it’s the lady who knowingly sought out such violence.” The Undertaker giggled and covered his mouth with his sleeve. “I told you there would be a price for information. If you willingly come here, you’re willing to pay it, hmm?”

 

“Y-you _horrid_ brute! I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but the only price I’ll pay will be in _your_ blood! You are nothing but a no good, lying – _what are you looking for_? The only thing worth your attention should be _me_!”

 

“Ah, you really _do_ seek out a man to break you . . . a collar to choke you.”

 

The Undertaker gracefully moved about his desk and brushed his fingers over each object, almost as if searching for one special and lost item. He moved some items just slightly, others he ignored entirely, and so each and every item had its place . . . its purpose . . . yet somehow it seemed more chaotic than it had before. There was method in the madness. It shouldn’t have been possible to obtain order in chaos, but somehow this man managed it. He managed it.

 

The silver-haired man eventually reached down and took the parchment from his desk. He began to spin and dance across the room, his movements sweeping and epic, and all the while he held the parchment in his hands as if it were merely an extension of himself. He seemed mad. The whole time he laughed and laughed, the whole time he seemed to find Grell as irrelevant as the dust itself, and so he moved around Grell without stopping, without thinking. Grell wanted to reach out and take it, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t as if it were a mere drawing, it was something that contained the blood and bile of another person, all for sheer artistic expression! It was sinister and not to mention unhygienic, yet beautiful and sacred! Grell would look at it, but he wouldn’t touch it. It was too meaningful to touch.

 

Still . . . the picture was beautiful! It shouldn’t have been, but it was! The Undertaker had captured Grell’s figure so perfectly, shading it so well that the figure on the page almost jumped out into three dimensions. He had even somehow managed to make Grell’s eyes glimmer and his coat buttons shimmer. It was so perfect. He had captured each and every hair, the occasional strand of black to further emphasise the red, and the two tones alone somehow making the piece seem . . . special.

 

Grell reached out tentatively to take it, but the other man snatched it back.

 

“Remember: a broken doll is no fun at all.”

 

“I won’t be broken by the likes of _you_ , Deserter!”

 

“Then you don’t need the reassurance of a mere piece of paper.”

 

Grell growled dangerously.

 

Someone like _that_ wouldn’t deny him! It was that thought that spurred him forward to take the picture by force, to snatch it from the former Shinigami’s hands, but the Undertaker merely giggled and stepped out of his reach. Grell clenched his hand into a tight fist and moved swiftly to grab the paper again, but – yet again – it was pulled away with such skill that the damned mortician had managed to move it into his other hand! It was ridiculous! He was essentially fighting the man for a bloody drawing that was _his_! It was his image and therefore it was his drawing! He wanted it!

 

“You – you have no right to tease a lady like this!” Grell stopped his incessant grabbing and stamped his foot. “If you didn’t want me to have it then why did you offer it to me?”

 

“To show you something.”

 

Grell’s faced paled in horror as the Undertaker swept across the room. There were candles all about the parlour, the only light in the otherwise pitch-black space, and it was to the candle on his desk that he seemed to flee. He – he couldn’t really be -? Could he -? It seemed that he was. He raised the picture to the naked flame of the nearest candle and let it burn. It disappeared quicker than it had been created. It was as if it had never even existed . . . no record of its brief life, no cinematic record . . . nothing but the memory of its image. That – that wasn’t fair! Grell felt cheated!

 

It had been such a beautiful image, too, but now it was gone. There was no _reason_ for it to have been destroyed like that, it was – it was . . . _gone_. The Undertaker merely let out a muffled laugh and walked over to Grell, almost as if he didn’t _care_ that he had upset the redheaded Shinigami, which did nothing in return but infuriate Grell and make him wonder what it would bloody taken to earn the damn fool’s respect! Grell gave him a hard stare – refusing to show an iota of concern – and hoped that his racing heart would slow down soon, because he didn’t think that he could take this strange mixture of fear and anger much longer. Then – without warning – the Undertaker reached out to him . . . _he reached out_.

 

It felt like the moment when humans saw their death. There was the intense feeling of horror at the inevitable pain that would come, the humiliation of being seen as weak when he felt unable to pull away, and yet an intense and thrilling excitement as something unknown came his way . . . Grell felt the danger, but he also wanted to know – in his morbid way – if he would make it out unscathed. He wanted to know how far the Undertaker would go. He wanted to know just what this man wanted, just how he had _finally_ earned his attention.

 

The Undertaker paused with his fingers inches from Grell’s face . . .

 

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” The man whispered in his usual singsong voice. “Beauty is such a fleeting thing; so temporary, so ephemeral . . . it’s like a dream lost upon awakening, so that when the very memory of it is gone the beauty may never have existed. Women grow old, buildings crumble, and works of art are lost to time. Nothing survives forever, or – at least – not in its original state.”

 

“Yes, thanks to _you_ I have a scar that’s testimony to _that_.”

 

“Hmm, there has indeed been damage,” the Undertaker said sadly. He reached out with his burned finger and traced a line over the scarred eyelid, leaving a trail of soot in his wake. “Still, my lady has retained her original form, albeit with some small . . . _changes_. Your beauty has not died at all.”

 

The eerie smile on his lips caused Grell to swallow hard and look away. He was desperate to avoid a glimpse of those handsome eyes, because he hadn’t _time_ to get lost in the moment or fall for another man all over again! This man had no concept of personal space. Grell wasn’t going to let him think that this close proximity was welcome, even if he _did_ appear to be wearing cologne, which was odd considering that Grell was certain the man usually just dousedhimself with embalming fluid and bathed in bleach. He never pictured the Undertaker as a man who knew what cologne _was_ , or perhaps he kept some for the same reason he kept make-up . . . for his clients.

 

“I came here for answers,” Grell snapped, “not for you to state the obvious.”

 

“Then riddle me this: do you wonder what would happen if the original state of beauty wasn’t just _changed_ ,” the Undertaker continued whilst he reached out with his clean hand to wipe away the soot upon Grell’s face, “but _replaced_? Is an adaptation of a play as interesting as its first performance? Is the rewrite of a book as true to its source as its first edition? It makes one wonder which is more real: the original upon which the retelling was based, or the retelling which is all that we have ever known?”

 

Grell rolled his eyes and struck the Undertaker’s hand away. He was beginning to feel as if he were being mocked, especially when the silver-haired man was treating him with such familiarity and intimacy. If he didn’t let Sebastian or William treat him in such a manner, why did the Undertaker think that _he_ would be an exception? Grell couldn’t deny there was some interest in the older man, but he was here for answers first and foremost. He wasn’t there to be ridiculed!

 

Enough was enough! It was time to get back to the office and at least _pretend_ that he had done _some_ work, and frankly he had better things to do that stay and humour a man whose only source of humour was Grell himself. He turned to storm out of the parlour, but as he spun around he felt a strong pressure on his wrist, something so strong and powerful that it jolted Grell from his thoughts and forced him to a standstill. What on Earth was that fool playing at? Grell growled through his shark-like teeth and made to pull his hand free, but the Undertaker only strengthened his grip with a serious and stoic expression that was far from his usual humour . . .

 

This was ridiculous! The mortician was playing idiotic mind-games with him, answering his unasked questions with cryptic riddles, and now he was being presumptuous enough to _touch_ Grell without his permission. He wanted to turn his scythe onto this man, to rip off the hand that dared to try and stop him from leaving! He would bury this man in salt if he had to! He would make him drink embalming fluid! It just wasn’t right for a man to take hold of a lady like this, as if he _owned_ her!

 

“You fiend! Let go of me!”

 

Grell made to slap the Undertaker with his free hand, but the older man was far too quick for him. No sooner had he moved did the Undertaker grab a hold of his other wrist and force him against the wall, pinning him with great strength and purpose, so that the redheaded man was completely paralysed and unable to move. Grell drew in a deep breath and tried to stay calm. His arms were pinned aside his head and the eerie ex-Shinigami invaded his personal space, but he refused to be intimidated by such an overly macho display of strength.

 

“Such disrespect,” the Undertaker said with a giggle. “Do you walk away from all your elders like that? It’s no wonder that Sebastian doesn’t find you appealing when you don’t know your place, such a shame.”

 

“I know my place,” Grell spat, struggling in the other man’s hold, “it’s with my foot on that ugly face of yours, Undertaker!”

 

“Or your scythe aimed at my heart?”

 

Grell glared at the Undertaker. He had to hold back the urge to spit in his face. _So this was what this was about?_ The damned jackass was holding a grudge against that battle still? Grell had done far worse to the Undertaker than merely aiming a blow to his body, and – considering that was self-defence – the damned man had deserved it! No one tried to put Grell in his place, nor did anyone keep him away from handsome men and collecting souls! Most of all no one had any right to punish Grell – then _or_ now – for a perceived insult, especially when those insults were well deserved!

 

“Is that was this is about? You’re just pissed that I tried to take you out?”

 

“It seems you forget who is in charge.”

 

Grell snarled at the Undertaker and thrashed around from beneath his hold, desperate to break away and break the man’s face instead. He wouldn’t deny that he felt a little frightened, albeit not quite as much when he had been on the end of his own death scythe or when William forced his suspension upon him, but he also felt furious beyond all reason. It was one thing to be bossed about by William, because the man had beaten him fairly in battle. It was one thing to be abused by Sebastian, because at least he was dreamy and had proved himself, but the Undertaker -! He hadn’t earned the right to try and dominate himself! He had no right!

 

“It seems you think I’m just a weakling who’ll give into your advances!” Grell threw himself forward, only to get pushed back down. “I’m not an easy woman; I’ll have you know! You can’t win me over with pathetic invitations or batting those beautiful eyelashes! You haven’t bested me yet! You don’t _deserve_ a woman like me, and I’m willing to bet that most women _you_ bed only consent by default, _Undertaker_!”

 

The smile on the Undertaker’s lips didn’t match the anger in his eyes. He was still for a long moment, merely staring into Grell’s eyes with a dark anger, which caused Grell’s heart to quicken just slightly. What was the other man waiting for? The seconds seemed to tick by slowly, each one bleeding into the other, but then – abruptly – the Undertaker let go of one of his wrists. It was all the opportunity that Grell needed. He made to punch the rogue Shinigami, but before his hand even had a chance to move he felt a hard grip upon the back of his head. It was painful. The Undertaker had buried his hand deep inside Grell’s silky red locks, gripping so tightly that Grell felt as if his hair were being pulled out by the roots.

 

It was painful and humiliating. No man had a right to hold him in such a manner! Well, he was used to such abuse from Sebastian, but it could hardly be called a gesture of love or respect, not that this was a much better action from the Undertaker, but – at the very least – the demon respected him enough to _expect_ a possible counter-attack. It was as if the Undertaker didn’t think that Grell _could_ or _would_ fight back! It wasn’t fair! Grell was stronger than this! He was _better_ than this. He shouldn’t have had his hair pulled like some common tart; it was undignified!

 

It was then that Grell felt something hot and rough upon his neck, something wet that trailed along his skin and left him gasping aloud and arching his back. His hands instinctively clenched into tight fists as he let out an appreciative moan. This – this wasn’t what he had expected at all! The – the Undertaker was _licking_ his neck! He was licking him! It was such a possessive and primal gesture. It felt like he was being marked, being tested, and the hand in his hair remained tight as the hand on his wrist tightened even more. He was being restrained, being _assaulted_ , and yet he liked it. He should have wanted to fight back. He should have punched the other man. So why couldn’t he refrain from moaning and thrusting his hips?

 

“You taste so sweet,” the Undertaker whispered. He drew his head up to Grell’s cheek and blew a hot stream of air into his ear, which forced Grell to bite his lip to stop from embarrassing himself. “You taste nothing like my clients at all.”

 

“O-oh, I – I’m honoured . . . _wait_! You – _you’re joking_ , aren’t you?”

 

The Undertaker laughed loudly and let go of Grell with great force. He walked away as if nothing had occurred at all. How was it that he knew so perfectly what it was that Grell liked and wanted, what he needed and craved? He was able to turn him on to such an extent that Grell’s body wanted more, even if his heart was telling him to stop now before things grew too out of hand . . . the deserter would only break his heart or use him for the worst. N-not that he _cared_ what such a man thought or felt!

 

“Of course I jest,” the Undertaker replied. “You can see I like life in my partners.”

 

“You – you just _assaulted_ me! I ought to carve that pretty face of yours with a fresh little scar! You brute! You fiend! You can’t touch a lady without her permission; my skin shall never be clean again! You _sullied_ me!”

 

“My, did the lady just call me ‘pretty’?”

 

Grell growled and stormed across to the Undertaker. He was inches away from the giggling man, the same man who seemed to not even care in the slightest that Grell was being _humiliated_ by such impudence! It was one thing for Sebastian to hurt him, because he was a demon and didn’t know the value of true beauty when he saw it, and it was another thing for William to be such a brute, because at least he was Grell’s superior and had a _right_ to be a brute, but the Undertaker . . . he had no right at all! He used to be so _nice_ too, but now he was – he was . . . he was _standing up to_ Grell!

 

At any other time that may have been a rather attractive trait, certainly a turn on, but Grell was a lady worth wooing and a damsel to be rescued from William’s cruel grasp! He was a lady who deserved so much more than just aggressive taunts and cruel come-ons! The Undertaker should have bended to his will like Madame Red had done, given in to his every demand, but . . . well . . . if he did Grell would have perhaps overlooked him and forgotten he was a man worth paying attention to . . .

 

“The colour red is so interesting,” the Undertaker said with a giggle, walking across the room to collect the vials of blood as Grell collected himself. “It is the colour of blood, the colour of lust, the colour of _passion_. . .”

 

“It’ll also be the colour of your urine after I kick you in the groin!”

 

Grell tried not to blanche in fear as the Undertaker turned a narrowed and venomous gaze upon him, and the way he looked him directly in the eyes and stared so intently almost made it seem as if he were peering deep into Grell’s very soul. What was he looking for? What did he see? It was a hungry and primal look. It was the look a Shinigami gave to a Cinematic Record, it was the look that a demon gave its prey, and the look that a killer gave its victim moment before death.

 

He was trying to intimidate Grell and it wasn’t working! Grell wasn’t the sort to back away from a look like that! True, he might cower or tremble, or even beg for his life, or sometimes even cry if his face were maimed in some way, but to _back away . . ._ never! He wouldn’t let the Undertaker win, and besides . . . it was nice to feel such an adrenaline rush and feel the heat in his face. It was almost like he had been brought back to a life he hadn’t quite realised he had lost, because finally he had found an equal to stand up to and yet an equal who would likewise put him in his place. This was a man who knew when to stand tall and when to back down. This was a man strong enough to break Grell and yet kind enough to build him back up . . . he _excited_ Grell. He also made Grell want to bloody kill him seven ways from Sunday!

 

He walked back towards Grell and giggled under his breath.

 

The Undertaker reached out to touch Grell’s face, which Grell – against his every instinct – let him. The mortician’s long nail trailed down Grell’s jaw and then firmly along his neck. It pressed hard enough to leave a red mark, hard enough that when Grell’s Adam’s apple bobbed that it drew a speck of blood, and yet down and down it went . . . over his chest . . . over his belt . . . then it stopped. It stopped just millimetres from a place it daren’t yet touch. Then it pulled away. The Undertaker smiled when he saw the blood on Grell’s neck and the flush to his cheeks, and licked his finger.

 

“Red suits you well,” he whispered. “It’s such a _weak_ colour. It is turned by blue into purple, lessened by white into pink . . . when two shades combine they are consumed by that which they come into contact with, each one losing what it once was, so that it is as if they were one at all. Never let another dilute you, my lady.”

 

Grell growled loudly. The bastard was playing with him! Well, Grell wasn’t a man to be played with! He wasn’t the sort to spread his legs for any old tomcat that purred for him, nor was he the sort to let his reputation be tarnished by having unbeautiful creatures touch him so freely, and if the Undertaker thought Grell was just any weak woman that could be bound so freely then he was sadly mistaken!

 

The redheaded man pulled back his hand and sent it spiralling towards the Undertaker’s face, at which point the Undertaker caught his hand fast by the wrist and used the leverage to throw Grell down to the ground. It was such a hard and fast blow that Grell barely had time to counter it, and – whilst he moved with it and avoided damage – he couldn’t avoid being knocked down onto his knees completely. His body was thrown against the nearest coffin. He groaned in frustration and clenched the sides to pull himself up into a sitting position, but froze when he looked down into the eyes of a corpse.

 

“You bastard!”

 

This – this was far from right! A lady should be handled with care, _kneaded_ gently and _rolled_ kindly like soft dough, not _battered_ and _beaten_ like egg whites in a plastic bowl! Grell was a delicacy to be savoured. He was a fragile flower to be enjoyed, a maiden whose chastity and reputation should be defended, and here he was – without any respect – thrown upon a _corpse_! That fiend! The smell was horrendous . . . the blood was metallic smelling, the disinfectant like iodine or turpentine . . . hideous!

 

“My lady needs to learn respect is earned, not demanded.”

 

Grell tried not to be sick as he stared at the corpse. He had killed long ago, but he had never really and truly looked at the aftermath of his slaughter, so to see the greenish skin and pale blue lips . . . it was eerie even for a Shinigami. He was the embodiment of death, yet he had never truly understood or comprehended death. It was an abstract concept. Lives were to be studied, reviewed, then judged. He had never expected to be _thrown_ onto the coffin of one that had once lived, forced to see what had become of the shell the soul had left behind . . . he hated it.

 

“Then my mortician friend needs to learn that romance is not a quick _lick_ of a _lolly_ , but a sumptuous _feast_ for two,” Grell snarled, bearing his teeth as he climbed to his feet. “It’s not the _sampling_ of a dish, but the _consumption_ of it, much like –”

 

“Your innuendos describe a quick romp amongst the sheets, not romance.”

 

Grell blushed furiously and tried to ignore the outright laughing. The silver-haired man laughed so hard that he was even slapping the wall as if trying to subdue himself, but unable to! It – it wasn’t funny at all! If the Undertaker wanted a joke he should try looking in a mirror! Was Grell supposed to be grateful simply to get a man’s attention? True, Grell wasn’t exactly the most popular guy ever, but he wasn’t that hard up he would willingly grab a man who would mock him, humiliate him and _laugh_ at him! The man was a brute!

 

“Look, I just came here for –”

 

“A book, I know.”

 

“How the hell do you know what I was going to ask for? You don’t even know whose book it is that I want! I came here on a mere whim, you know? I was just curious about you and had the fleeting thought on the way that maybe – just maybe – someone who died when our missing bodies did might have seen something! So you really _have_ been sneaking into our library after all! I sometimes think that _you’re_ nothing more than a Bizarre Doll! You soulless man!”

 

The Undertaker sniggered to himself and walked across the room to his desk. It was too dark within the parlour; the darkness was impenetrable, the candlelight rather weak despite the amount of candles, and the gaslights on the street outside barely managed to break their way through the boarded windows. Grell wondered if this establishment was ever shown an ounce of light. Did the Undertaker even clean it? The cobwebs hung low from the ceiling and the dust coated the floor. It made Grell feel as if he needed a shower just _standing_ within a mile of the shop.

 

“Is that right?” The Undertaker laughed aloud. “I borrowed a book from the library. I had to sneak in, but what our William doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him. I thought that you might notice it missing, it seems I was right. I wanted a love story, you see. I wanted a love-story about a boy who burns so bright that his future is golden, but that is dragged down into death by a shade so dark that his white purity becomes stained grey. Those tragedies always make the best reads, don’t they?”

 

Grell sighed and looked wistfully into the air. “Love always ends with tragedy, because – alas – one person in the pair will always love one partner more than the other, and that can only lead to heartbreak . . .”

 

“You do not believe two people can love equally?”

 

“Isn’t love like a pebble in the wide river? Oh, Sebastian’s _flowing_ stream penetrates my rough surface and works its way to my very core, whilst William’s _brutal_ rubbing only serves to break me . . . the little pebble lost in the waters! Oh, love is so rough! Why must it hurt so? It is so much better when you can feel the _pounding_ waters, but it doesn’t half take its toll!”

 

“Hmm, perhaps _lust_ is like that,” the Undertaker said thoughtfully, “but love should be like a clod of clay, something in which we build upon, something that moulds the other person and causes them to grow. My lady would like William Blake, for his poetry would speak to her innocent soul.”

 

The Undertaker walked steadily around the desk before he collapsed into his chair by the desk, and his long legs came up to rest upon the desk’s surface. Grell couldn’t help but follow the long line of leather along the calf and over the knee and to the upper thigh, but was forced to stop when the dark robe covered the groin area and fell about to cover the Undertaker’s modesty. If the mortician noticed the hungry gaze he didn’t show it. The man merely seemed to think to himself, his half-smile reflecting his serious disposition and consideration for Grell’s feelings.

 

“Oh,” Grell continued, shaking the distracting image of the Undertaker from his head as he twirled a lock of hair around his fingers, “but there is never any poetry in the Library! Well, unless you include the dirty limerick that Ronnie wrote on the bathroom door when he got bored last month . . .”

 

“If the lady likes poetry then you should try my closet . . . just to your left.”

 

Grell rolled his eyes and looked to his left where a large cupboard lay. It seemed eerie and oppressive, like something in an operating room or a doctor’s surgery, something with a surface for working on and laying out equipment, but something with large storage cupboards below and above for the equipment that would be inevitably used for such penetrative surgeries. He was rather afraid to look into it. It felt like he would be looking into the abyss, but with the abyss looking back.

 

He sighed and made his way over to the cupboard regardless, because something – some dark and masochistic part of him – felt as if it could trust the Undertaker just this once. The silver-haired man wouldn’t _really_ hurt him, because if that were his intent then he could have maimed and killed Grell long ago, and – besides – he needed that blasted book. There was something strange about a body going missing _with_ a soul past the allotted time of death, and the higher-ups were blaming _them_ for not doing their jobs correctly! Just one clue – one hint – would help out immensely. It was a long shot . . . something he had thought of on a mere whim . . . still, what if one of the dead had a memory of what happened to the bodies?

 

Grell opened the cupboard doors with a rather triumphant grin, but no sooner had his hand pulled upon the doors did he hear the sound of a loud kind of bang from within, something that also knocked a large pressure against the ajar doors. Had something fallen from within the cupboard? If so then the damned Undertaker had to be more careful how he stored things, because if the Cinematic Records were damaged in any way or form then Grell would have his head –

 

“Ah! W-what the -?”

 

A glass jar fell out of the cupboard. Grell barely had time to jump away, he certainly hadn’t any time or opportunity to _catch_ whatever had fallen, but none of that seemed to matter when said object smashed brutally upon the stone floor . . . it stained the ground with a murky liquid and exposed a large grey mass. Liquid spread out everywhere and the brain that had been inside the jar seemed to spread out like a piece of jelly, something that wobbled with its own life and pulsed in a horrific manner. It was made worse by how it slid about the floor and stopped by the toe of Grell’s shoe.

 

Grell screamed loudly in disgust and threw himself backwards, right into the waiting arms of the laughing Undertaker . . . he clenched hard upon the black robe out of instinct, buried his head into the rumbling chest, and when he breathed in he felt rather safe and protected. The arms that wrapped around him were comforting and firm, touching him as if trying to embrace him; it was so easy to get lost . . .

 

“Don’t lose your mind, my lady,” the Undertaker said, stroking Grell’s red hair in a relaxing manner. “Blood may be beautiful, but as necessary as it is for surviving this cruel world it means nothing without the brain . . .”

 

“True, but brains do not belong on the floor!”

 

“It wasn’t on the floor,” the Undertaker said through laughter, “it was merely a paperweight in my closet. My lady _rudely_ knocked it over when – in her impatience – she flung open the doors! Look at it, Miss Sutcliff. It is the seat of all power, yet without the flowing red blood it dies and becomes a mere husk, but without that same grey mass the red blood serves no purpose either. Interesting, is it not? Red and grey, two colours that need one another to survive.”

 

The Undertaker gently pushed Grell away.

 

It left the younger Shinigami looking up at him with green eyes wide in childish admiration, as if they questioned the Undertaker’s motives. Grell was aware that he likely seemed much more mature in that quiet moment. There were no innuendoes, no flamboyant gestures, and for once – just once – he was listening with a seriousness rarely known, because even Grell knew that sometimes silence was necessary. So rarely did anyone have the patience to see the various virtues to Grell, so rarely did anyone care to break past the flashy exterior to see the person within . . .

 

“Allow me,” the Undertaker said.

 

“Huh?”

 

Grell watched as the mortician reached down to pick up the brain from the floor, before he used his other hand to reach into the cupboard to retrieve two books from within: one was typical of the Cinematic Records and another was old, frayed and torn. The second book interested Grell. It was like a large notebook, but the handwriting on the front was so elegant – so beautiful – that somehow it seemed to be more than just mere notes. He wondered what it was.

 

“This is the book you thought would help you on your whim,” the Undertaker said, handing it to Grell with a warm smile. “This other book is a collection of sketches that my lady may like, although be sure not to get them confused! William never did have a sense of humour. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble for neglecting your duties and confusing art with science.”

 

“Oh, thank you! I’ll return the sketchbook first thing tomorrow. You don’t mind me stopping by, do you? I finish late every evening this week, so I may as well make some visits to you, it will be _far_ too late to make any social calls or attend any parties, and – well – it’s not as though _you_ have anywhere you need to be.”

 

“You wound me. I am a _head_ of many others,” the Undertaker said with a giggle, “but one needs to work hard to stay a head. Surely you know the meaning of the word ‘ _principal’_? My _studies_ will never advance if I slack.”

 

“I am only visiting you for _work_ reasons! Don’t get the wrong idea! I’ll only be coming to swap notes and learn more about our case, whatever principles you have don’t matter to me in the _least_ , and I certainly won’t be here long enough to disturb your studies! Besides . . . it’s not like I want to get to _know_ you.”

 

“Not even biblically?”

 

Grell glared darkly at the Undertaker. He snatched the sketchbook from the man’s hands and refrained from the temptation of looking into its pages, because to give it any kind of acknowledgement would be to forgive such _crude_ remarks. In a weaker moment Grell may have just blushed and looked away, but not today, today he was too furious to overlook such blatant rudeness, and so he used the Cinematic Record to smack the silver-haired man hard on the head.

 

The Undertaker kept his head low even when the book was removed, but held a hand to his head to check for blood and to hold down the swelling. It wasn’t bleeding, but Grell certainly had hoped it would. _Honestly_ , to talk about a ‘merging’ of colours with someone that he had only met a handful of times previously, with most of those encounters with Grell undercover and in disguise at that! Then to talk about _sex_ as if Grell was some sort of floozy who would give himself to anyone! He had _some_ standards. He had even rejected Sebastian on one occasion, during the whole ball fiasco with Alan and Eric . . . he had standards!

 

“No, not biblically!” Grell snapped. “That is not until you _at least_ learn how to woo a lady without brains, blood or brawn! You can’t just beat her and abuse her then expect her to fall at your feet! You aren’t Sebby or Will!”

 

“I see, then how about a home-cooked meal?”

 

“Only if I see a receipt for the kidneys, signed by the butcher himself.”

 

“My lady doesn’t think highly of me . . .”

 

“No, I bloody don’t!”

 

“Well the meat will be fresh, I promise,” the Undertaker said, as he suppressed a growing roll of laughter. “I just hope that if you like the butcher’s kidneys that you’ll like _my_ sausage all the more.”

 

“You – you bastard!”

 

Even when the Cinematic Record hit the silver-haired man square on the forehead, even when it drew blood from his otherwise pale skin, the eerie mortician refused to stop in his manic laughter. It seemed to spur on Grell’s anger. The louder the laughter became, the more Grell seemed to grow enraged . . . it was only when he kicked the Undertaker hard in the groin that the silver-haired man stopped laughing. Grell didn’t get to see the scowl on the man’s face, or the way he doubled over in pain, because he stormed out of the parlour and refused to look back.

 

The Undertaker felt his eyes water as he cursed under his breath . . .

 

“Hmm, good aim . . . bad humour.”


	3. Chapter 3

# Chapter Three

****

“This is fun, huh?”

 

Ronald pouted and leaned back in his chair. The two back legs were at such a dangerous angle that it was only sheer will that kept him in place, and the young blond felt rather lucky that Eric and Grell weren’t around to see him balanced so delicately. It was usually at that exact moment one would slap him on the shoulder, or the other would kick the back legs out from under him, and he would be sent toppling backwards onto the floor. William wouldn’t have minded, either. He would have considered it a well-earned lesson.

 

It wasn’t exactly fair, but that was William all over. If Ronald felt it acceptable to flout the health-and-safety guidelines, which stated that all four legs of a chair must remain on the ground at all times, then according to William he pretty much deserved to fall and be injured. The only thing that made it bearable was the fact that, recently, the older Shinigami had stopped quoting paragraphs when it happened. Then again Ronald had the sneaking suspicion that William was more concerned about the destruction of Ronald’s old swivelling chair, than he was about the blond leaning backwards, because up until five days ago it had been safely in the office and no one had yet discovered how or why it had been stolen.

 

Ronald had the darkest suspicion that Grell had used the chair during his lunch-break, part of a ‘race’ against some of their colleagues in another division, and – if it weren’t for Eric’s death – he might have even just blamed the pair of them and forgotten all about it. He couldn’t prove that it _was_ Grell, of course, any more than he could prove that the broken pieces of chair found underneath William’s desk were _his_ , but that was very much the problem. Their superiors refused to believe that anyone would be stupid enough to hide evidence of theft and vandalism beneath their manager’s desk, but he _knew_ that it was his colleague. He knew it.

 

“Here I am doing overtime and Sutcliff-sempai gets to go on a date!” Ronald blew a bubble with the gum he was chewing. The noise cut into William like a knife and caused him to snap his pencil in stress. “I thought we weren’t allowed any personal days? I mean, come on, if anyone deserves a day off then it’s me! I should be out there finding the future mother of my children, not stuck in an office!”

 

“Is that so, Ronald Knox?”

 

“Yeah, I mean I know you’re a tad annoyed at us,” Ronald mumbled as he blew another bubble, “but it’s not our fault the records haven’t shown anything. That Arden kid was what set this whole investigation off, right? So why didn’t we find his body on the Campania? The whole thing seems like a waste of time to me.”

 

“Then it is a good job that I am in charge.”

 

Ronald watched as William adjusted his glasses with his scythe. He had to be one of the rare few Shinigami to keep his scythe out at all times, but – then again – his was one of the more portable and practical sorts. It was just weird to see their boss shuffling through Eric’s old desk, because it kind of felt like an invasion of privacy, even if the man had died a while ago . . . Ronald still hadn’t found the strength to go through those personal belongings and old files . . .

 

There had been a time where Alan and Grell had shared a workspace, whereas Eric and Ronald had shared another . . . two desks pressed together in one corner of a room, two pressed together in the opposing diagonal corner . . . Eric always annoying Ronald with towering piles of paperwork from major cases, with Ronald annoying Eric by spreading out and taking up more space than he otherwise needed. It was only when the Alan and Eric – two lovers in life and death – had died that it felt a little awkward sitting opposite their belongings. It felt like living in the shadow of a ghost. Grell had taken the initiative to move all of Eric’s things to his desk and his things to Eric’s, and both men more than welcomed the change.

 

“I think it could be possible that the dolls are evolving,” William said without emotion, whilst he fished through old files and paperwork. “If they are not then it is more than possible that there are a variety of dolls of different types.”

 

“None that have souls though . . .”

 

“None that we know of. Get back to work, Ronald Knox.”

 

Ronald sighed and thought back over the past week. He wondered why Grell was miraculously finishing his reports on time, volunteering for overtime, and even keeping his flamboyant flirtations to a minimum around William. It was also pretty weird that his colleague hadn’t been going to as many parties lately, but Ronald was pretty sure he knew why . . . Grell might have been keen to go on a ‘date’, which probably explained why he was so well-behaved when he wanted the day off, but he had yet to tell anyone _who_ it was he wanted to go out with so badly. If Ronald were to hazard a guess, he would put all his money on the Undertaker.

 

“Do you get the impression that Miss Sutcliff is hiding something?”

 

“If _Mister_ Sutcliff weren’t hiding something,” William snapped, “then I would be truly concerned. Do I find it suspicious that he has a new crush? No. I dofind it suspicious, however, that someone _returned_ any interest in _that_ creature.”

 

William bent down and ripped a manila file from under the table-leg. It looked like it was supporting the table, because when it was removed the table began to rattle and shake as if it were on the verge of collapse. The top of the desk was scarred and marked with nail polish and mascara, from where Grell had a tendency to rest his make-up instruments, and there was still a little doll that looked a _lot_ like Sebastian on the desk. It was sat next to Eric’s spare pair of glasses.

 

“I get the impression Miss Sutcliff isn’t that interested though,” Ronald said conversationally, as he drew a diagram on a fresh piece of paper. “That’s the weird part! I mean the guy is _totally_ into him, in a kind of sadistic interest kind of way, but I think she’s only into him back _because_ he’s so cold, you know? It’s like she’s found someone who likes her, but also someone who doesn’t bow to her every whim.”

 

“ _No one_ bows to that thing’s whim.”

 

“They do though, don’t they? You and that demon are always so harsh to Miss Grell, so she tries to get your attention all the time, like – I don’t know – she needs the validation or something, but then everyone else defers to her being so senior and all. If this guy’s neither one or the other, she probably fancies him as he’s so into her and her type, but she’s probably pissed he’s not fawning over her and stuff . . . I think she’s into him, but hates that she’s into him.”

 

“Are you done psychoanalysing your colleagues, Ronald Knox?”

 

“I bet she’s chasing him so much to try and win him completely over,” Ronald carried on, “but at the same time she’s probably turned on that someone can stand up to her as an equal and take control like he does. They kind of complement each other, don’t they? I mean he’s great for her, now I think about it. He respects her, but he knows how to dominate her, but the more he plays games the more she wants him, because she just had to win . . . he’s got game, I’ll give him that.”

 

“Who? _Who_ has game?”

 

William sent Ronald a dark look as he began to shuffle through the piles of paper, almost as if he resented any form of distraction from his work. The likelihood that their deceased co-workers would have worked on a relevant case was pretty low, especially towards the end where Alan was given the simpler cases, but there was always the chance that something concerning the dolls might have been mixed in with Eric’s cases. It was a low chance, but still a chance . . .

 

Ronald tidied his desk around him, as he tried to think of an excuse to give to his superior, and began to organise his files earnestly as he looked from his work to his boss. That was what William liked: professionalism. He liked everyone to be punctual, he liked every report to be on time, and he liked personal lives to be kept separate from professional work. Ronald wasn’t too sure, but he was relatively certain that dating the Undertaker – a man who went rogue and caused mass murder – _might_ have counted as a conflict of interests. He would have to make an excuse to save Grell from their superior’s wrath.

 

“It’s no one, Mister Spears! I think it’s just some guy from the Phantomhive Manor, so I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you!”

 

“ _That demon filth?_ ”

 

William slammed his files hard down onto Eric’s desk. The look he sent Ronald told him very clearly – in a very, _very_ dangerous tone – that he had said the absolute worst thing possible. It was surprising that Sebastian was the first person that William thought of. Surely other people worked at that manor, too? A place that big had to have a staff count somewhere in the dozens. The only one that Ronald could remember though was that cute little maid who had waved him off on the Campania.

 

“Huh? Oh, er, no way! I know it’s not Sebastian for sure! It must have been someone else from the Manor, or around the manor, I kind of forget now actually. It doesn’t matter though, does it? Just so long as he does his work.”

 

“That man is useless with love,” William snapped. “It will distract him.”

 

“I don’t know, Sir. This guy seems like he might be a good influence, you know?”

 

“Then I feel sorry for him. Grell will only drag him down.”

 

It didn’t help that William had a point . . . Grell _was_ useless when it came to love. He would fawn over Sebastian even when the demon scum tried to kill him and mutilate him, he would worship William even when their superior physically abused him and belittled him . . . he seemed to pick the worst men. There was a part of Ronald that wondered if Grell picked the men _because_ they wouldn’t return his love. It seemed like Grell was scared of rejection, maybe of intimacy, but the only person he had ever loved seemed to have been Madame Red. Maybe it was because she needed him and depended upon him, he had the control . . . Ronald loved Grell, but he was impossible when it came to romance. Impossible.

 

The man was beautiful and highly attractive, but he was also flaky, obsessive, and masochistic. Grell would flaunt rules to the extent that he would be suspended from work, leaving William with more overtime than was healthy, and he would _still_ ask for more time off from work. It was a shame. Grell had so much potential that it was just painful to see him waste it. He had grades far superior to William, he could manipulate the strongest of men, and he had skill to hold his own against a rogue Shinigami _and_ a demon in battle, but what did he do . . .

 

“He fawns over the worst of men,” Ronald mumbled.

 

“Ronald Knox, that is enough,” William snapped coldly. “Grell is _unfortunately_ entitled to a love life, but it isn’t appropriate for you to discuss it in the workplace. You have work to do. _Do it_.”

 

“Oh, come on! I’m still young, I shouldn’t have to work like this!”

 

“No, but if you want a wage –”

 

“Ah, I totally forgot! I need to work out my monthly expenses! Do you think I can get reimbursed for that date last month? It was on the Campania so technically it counts as work, so it’s like a work expense! That was a three-course meal and –”

 

“No,” William snapped.

 

Ronald huffed loudly and spat his chewing gum high into the air, before he swiped a piece of paper upwards to catch it, hopefully – he thought – with what was a blank expense sheet and not the report he had sporadically been working on. He probably ought to have checked before, but it was too late now. The pout on Ronald’s lips was rather adorable and made him seem far younger than he was, enough that – were William a lesser man – he may have given into the pleas for sympathy due to his age.

 

“I still don’t see why not,” Ronald mumbled. The sulking in his voice was clear as day. “I mean Eric got to claim for that ripped shirt when he went out on a mission with Mister Humphries, and considering that they were only on a routine job and didn’t mention any demons or rogue Shinigami in their reports, it’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

 

Ronald caught the little flicker in the corner of William’s eye. It seemed like he was beginning to get stressed, but not enough to snap or demand complete silence. Ronald wasn’t sure what he had said, – maybe it was the mention of their colleagues lost to them in their prime – but he was sure that whatever it was that William didn’t approve of it. Then again, William always disapproved of the end-of-month expenses sneaking in a few personal expenses, especially not when short-staffed and with their budget way under what it should be. Ronald should have expected that response.

 

“You’re too observant for someone so naïve,” William said darkly.

 

“Eh, what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means,” William said, massaging his temples, “be silent and work.”

 

“I would, but it’s too hard! I don’t want to be silent when I’ve been working all day alone in such a tiny and cramped office! I _finally_ have company and you’re depriving me of a chance to talk and –”

 

“You can talk when work has finished.”

 

That was always the way . . . he was always promised time to play when work was finished, always told to be patient and do his share . . . there was just always so much overtime though! William never seemed to understand that Ronald had a social life. He wanted to be out their drinking and partying, and if he couldn’t do that then he might as well talk and gossip a little, because what else were workplaces for? He missed Eric and Alan. He missed the days when they could all just sit and laugh as they wrote reports and finished their expense records; now everything was just so damned _dull_ , especially without Grell.

 

“Work’s never finished . . . plus when it seems like it’s all over then Grell goes on a killing spree, or the Undertaker raises an army of corpses, or you get sent on an undercover mission and I get called out to help you . . . now we have dead people walking about with souls still intact! Where the heck are they hiding? Plus whilst _we’re_ doing the work what’s Miss Sutcliff doing?”

 

“Probably his new _beau_ ,” William snapped angrily.

 

Ronald laughed and gave William a ‘V’-sign. He knew that he shouldn’t laugh at his friend’s expense, but William just had no idea how right he probably was . . . although Ronald was pretty sure that the ‘dates’ so far consisted of Grell just happening to ‘stop by’, followed by dysfunctional flirting and fighting. Still, it seemed to be going well between the two . . . Ronald probably would have been more supportive if he weren’t forced to pull extra shifts for his colleague to go dating.

 

It would probably lead to Grell being given more office-hours. William would not like his employees getting distracted from work, especially if he ever discovered the distraction in question was the Undertaker. Ronald dreaded to think of the fallout from _that_ revelation. It didn’t help that their boss was a bit underhanded when it came to getting them to actually do some work . . . enforced extra shifts, overtime, and the cessation of holidays were often the norm. It would be nice to get to work with Grell again though, no matter his faults, and no doubt William probably felt the same way too. Ronald sometimes wondered if the reason William was so hard on them was because he had such high expectations, because he believed that they were so much more capable than what they currently were. He believed in their potential.

 

“I have work to do in my office,” William said tersely, adjusting his glasses. “Can I trust you do your work if I leave you unsupervised?”

 

“Yes, Mister Spears,” Ronald chirped.

 

Ronald threw his packet of gum in the air, watched it twirl rather impressively, and then caught it in his other hand with a victorious smile. The action didn’t seem to reassure William at all. William drew in a deep breath and shook his head in frustration, but – rather than chastising Ronald – he merely adjusted the files he had collected in his arms and headed out of the office. Ronald was grateful for that fact. William’s office door had barely time to close when Ronald dropped onto all four legs, before he cricked his neck and dropped his pen to one side of the desk.

 

The blond shuddered visibly and looked with despair at the Alan and Eric’s desks. He had thought that everything had been going well, but now their empty seats seemed to haunt him, like the absence of the men was more than just an absence, like their spirits somehow lingered to mock him and taunt him. In his mind he could already picture the reaction of William when he sat down, opened the reports and statements, then saw that the already late reports were hastily done and rushed by Grell, just so he could leave early for his date . . .

 

“I hope Miss Sutcliff’s enjoying herself, at least,” Ronald mumbled.

 

* * *

 

“My clients are so lucky . . .”

 

The Undertaker laughed to himself. His head was flat against the table; his fringe covered his vibrant green eyes completely, so that – at the very least – they weren’t so much of a distraction for Grell. It would have been adorable, if not serene and beautiful, but something just made the scene . . . _ugly_. In front of the longhaired mortician sat a silver tray: a medical tray. Grell had seen worse, in fact he knew well that the Undertaker found death to be a natural part of life, but . . .

 

It was eerie to see a man against a desk – dreamily, sleepily – as he worked upon a human organ . . . a stomach . . . lying like a full water balloon fit to burst upon a surgical tray. The stomach wasn’t bloody, but it was certainly bloated. How could one act so indifferently to _that_? The smell that it emitted was rancid and beyond description, and mixed in with that odour was the clinical scent of disinfectants and bleach. How could that be ‘lucky’? If death meant to be dissected into little pieces, cut into squares for analysis, then Grell hoped that his body would never be recovered. He would not suffer such indigence as death!

 

“Every customer of mine gets to be pampered by my humble hands,” the Undertaker said with a giggle. “They are bathed and perfumed, they are given fine clothes and make-up fit for a debutante, and then they are chauffeured personally to their own personal plot of land. They are given a beautiful slumber and a well-deserved rest. They even have their own private room to lie in . . . so beautiful . . .”

 

A scalpel hung lazily from between his long index finger and his thumb; manipulated between two long nails that swung it as nonchalantly as a pendulum . . . Grell winced at the sight of such a thing. The only _long_ and _hard_ objects that a man should handle should have provided a _much_ more enjoyable experience than that . . . it was rather disturbing to think that those same hands would be the same ones to hold him and abuse him. True, they hadn’t gone _that_ far yet, and he _did_ disinfect his hands after each post-mortem, but still . . . there was something rather eerie about it all.

 

“Oh? I suppose there isn’t anything better than being bathed in blood,” Grell said, as he touched his finger to his lips. “Red _is_ the colour of passion, after all.”

 

“The lady agrees!”

 

“I didn’t say that, you fool!” Grell put his hands upon his hips and leaned forward with an angry glare. “There is a difference beauty and brutality! I don’t see anything beautiful about weighing and dissecting organs like meat in a butcher’s shop! This isn’t exactly spa treatment fit for a lady!”

 

Grell reached inside a pocket and held a handkerchief to his nose.

 

The smell was unbearable, but it didn’t seem to affect the peculiar mortician at all. No, instead of being offended by the smell the Undertaker merely laughed, then spun the tray around to reveal a long cut that ran along the side of the stomach, one that had been expertly stitched up so as to close the wound. Grell gagged. The Undertaker then  cut into the clean side, giggling the entire time his scalpel moved . . . Grell watched with a morbid fascination, unable to look away.

 

He felt hot and clammy at the sight. The scalpel was soon removed and was replaced instead by two long metallic objects that were completely alien to Grell, although they _did_ remind him a little of Madame Red’s offices and workspaces, and in a strange way they also reminded Grell of a trip to the dentist. Could it be that the Undertaker wanted to inspect the stomach contents? Perhaps he suspected poisoning as a potential cause of death? Then – little by little – the Undertaker opened a small flap in the stomach lining . . . he pulled it back, and then opened it up. He seemed to be inspecting something inside. Why did he then sit upright so rigidly and awkwardly? What was it that he was working on?

 

Grell felt both nauseous and curious. He moved over to a coffin and sat down upon the lid, whilst he silently watched his companion work intricately on something out of sight inside the stomach itself. There was something oddly soothing about watching someone so passionately losing themselves in their work, no matter how unconventional and creepy that work may have been . . .

 

The Undertaker moved the tools into one hand and used a medical clip of some sort to pull back his fringe, it kept his hair away from his eyes and oddly made him look rather handsome, albeit in a casual and unprofessional way. Grell was so used to stuffy men like Sebastian and William, men so hung up on appearance, that it was something of a relief to find a man confident enough with himself to look a little ridiculous and laidback. Grell watched him work, thinking of how the skills of the mortician must have always been so precise and spectacular, for who else could have been so involved with the events of the Campania?

 

“My lady seems lost in thought,” the Undertaker said.

 

“I’ve never been here whilst you were working,” Grell admitted sadly. “I have so much overtime and extra shifts to do, it’s almost as if Will doesn’t _care_ at all that I have things to do and people to see outside of him! Still, what can be better than seeing a _big, strong man_ using those long fingers of his to _work his way_ _inside_ the body of another, hmm?”

 

“Ah, but today is my lady’s day for a real ‘date’. Surely she would rather spend that time arguing over petty things, bickering noisily, and then making up rather nicely, rather than watching this old man work?”

 

“Oh hush, we can argue _any_ day. Today I want to see you work.”

 

“Very well,” the Undertaker laughed.

 

Grell felt his control break a little when he saw the Undertaker smile. It was certainly a rather chilling sight, because the older man’s eyes had a way of darkening considerably and his mouth would work its way into a narrow line, so he would overall seem like a sadistic villain smiling a broken smile at the hapless heroine. A low and terrifying chuckle escaped his lips, one that made Grell lick his lips and blush just a little. Then – suddenly – he reached down and pulled out a long line of thread, using it to work around one of his surgical items and reach inside the stomach to perhaps fix whatever error had occurred.

 

“Research does not need to be dull . . . it can be fun . . . like _toying_ with a man’s heart.” The Undertaker seemed to be sewing something within the stomach. “Does my lady know how to win a man’s heart?”

 

“Oh, I’m sure I could think of a _few_ ways . . .”

 

“The way to a man’s heart,” the Undertaker said casually, “is through his _stomach_.”

 

The room suddenly seemed to drop ten degrees. A heavy realisation struck Grell as he turned his eyes from the Undertaker’s countenance down to the stomach on the table, and – all so abruptly – his interest turned to absolute horror. Grell couldn’t help but feel his lip curl in disgust, or the way he let out a little moan of disapproval, and he was simply thankful that Ronald wasn’t here to see this . . . something _this_ disconcerting simply couldn’t be left out of their reports! It wasn’t as if Grell had a duty to report about anything the Undertaker did during their private moments together, especially when it was against the rules to be ‘fraternising with the enemy’ at the best of times, but he _did_ have professional loyalty to those above him . . .

 

The Undertaker finished whatever it was he worked upon, something which Grell hoped – in his very heart of hearts – was nothing more than a mere stomach ulcer or some other form of innocuous illness that only a post-mortem investigation would uncover, but he knew somewhere inside of himself that it would be more sinister. It would forever be something more sinister, like living dolls . . . perhaps he really _should_ report these occurrences back to William? He had a duty as a Shinigami to do his job and stop those dolls, but didn’t he also have a duty to the Undertaker?

 

“Heart surgery is so easy,” the Undertaker said, now standing as he finished his task. “It is like breaking a man’s heart . . . with time and practise you will always know the quickest way to deal the most damage or soothe the deepest of wounds . . . but I am a man who likes a challenge. I do not like hearts that are easily manipulated. There is no fun in it. _This_ heart cannot be manipulated easily . . .”

 

“Neither can _this_ heart, you brute! I should report you to Will!”

 

“Ah, you _should_ , but you won’t!” The Undertaker laughed and smiled across the room to the petulant redhead. “Did _my lady_ ever think for a moment that it was _her_ heart on my table? Hmm?”

 

“Oh, you’re nothing but a madman!”

 

Grell stood up abruptly and folded his arms across his chest. This was _hardly_ a date to remember! He had seen something unique and intriguing within this older man’s soul, he had visited him each evening since their little informal investigation, but the _one_ day that he purposely set aside for the Undertaker it seemed that the Undertaker was bent on ignoring him! It was completely unfair! Grell was someone to be wooed and waited upon, but _this_ man seemed intent on being unavailable! Just what did a lady have to do to win a man’s attention? Some days he did just wish he had told William everything, because at least if the Undertaker were in custody he would be out of Grell’s hair! Still, what on Earth was he _doing_? 

 

“Why _are_ you playing with organs, anyway?”

 

“Ah, a new game! The heart inside had been sealed away; the _previous_ cut has been closed and stitched. What should a man do? I must make a _new_ cut. I must hurt it _afresh_. Then I must break through the stomach and fix the left ventricle without causing damage to the heart _or_ the stomach, and there is the game -! I must _hurt_ the body to _heal_ the heart! Ah, but did I mention the _time limit_? The acid in the stomach damages the heart in a way that only _death_ can solve. I must fix the heart before it can never be fixed again. I call it ‘ _Operation’_. It’s fitting, isn’t it?”

 

Grell clenched his hands into tight fists. The sound of his low growl pervaded the air and broke the descending silence in a rather noisy manner, but he refused to deign to give a verbal reply to what was such an _obvious_ taunt. He had much more self-control than _that_! It was true that he didn’t quite understand what the Undertaker was hinting at, but he was more than certain he was being intentionally disturbing just to get a mere reaction from him. It was quite rude!

 

To the Undertaker it didn’t seem to matter too much about the details of his methods, because it was the end result that mattered . . . it didn’t matter if he were using skulls as pen-holders, playing skittles with femurs, or drawing with blood . . . he only ever did macabre things to prove a point or get a reaction. Well, now he had one. Grell felt a little disgusted and he wouldn’t forgive the Undertaker for that easily, the older man would have to earn his forgiveness, not that he seemed to care about forgiveness at all. He watched as the Undertaker walked about the room to a sink at a far corner, he even watched as the Undertaker washed his hands right up to the elbow with a strong disinfectant, and he even watched as the man took out his makeshift hair-clip and let his hair fall down over his eyes. He then walked about and took his biscuit tin from a wall, before he brought it over to Grell.

 

“Biscuit, my lady?”

 

“I suppose,” Grell muttered grumpily.

 

The redhead tentatively took a biscuit from the tin and observed it sceptically. It _looked_ rather normal, but there was never really any certain way of knowing when this man was involved, and he wouldn’t put it past the Undertaker to serve him dog biscuits in place of human ones. Still, when he looked at those plump giggling lips and that soft, pale skin . . . well, it’d probably be fine, surely? There also existed a very frail stalemate between them . . . the Undertaker would not break it whilst it was in his interests not to do so.

 

Grell took a bite with and was rather surprised to find that they were oddly delicious, homemade also, and when he looked at the Undertaker he was surprised to see an oddly modest and proud expression on his face. Had the Undertaker made the biscuits specifically for him? He blushed a little as he ate nervously, and tried to ignore the fact that the hands that served him had just moments before been on someone’s internal organs. The fact was that no man had ever cooked for him before, let alone made him such lovely homemade sweets in anticipation for his visit, and for one moment he truly felt like a lady of class. He felt appreciated.

 

He barely noticed when the Undertaker walked around him. Grell was still nibbling on his biscuit when the mortician put the biscuit tin down on the floor and snuck up behind him, and it was only when Grell felt a pair of strong arms wrapped around him that he noticed what had happened. Those long fingers came to rest upon Grell’s stomach and abdomen, drawing attention to the one part of Grell’s body that he had always hated. There was still a thriving part of him that craved a child. He hoped that wouldn’t be a deal-breaker for the Undertaker . . . at least Madame Red _understood_. 

 

“It seems you have the stomach _and_ the heart for what you do.”

 

The Undertaker pressed his face into the side of Grell’s neck and breathed in deeply, an action that caused the redheaded Shinigami to blush and stiffen his body. Grell wasn’t quite sure how to react. He flirted with men often, he threw himself at Sebastian and William without a second thought, but none of them had _ever_ reciprocated, now that one had . . . he wasn’t sure what to do. It was like a beautiful dream, but he also didn’t want to ruin the moment! Grell bit his lip in confusion.

 

“Perhaps I could interest you in a candlelit dinner?”

 

“It’s not even dark yet, let alone anywhere close to dinnertime!”

 

“Then would my lady care to sample _other_ desserts?”

 

Grell drew in a deep and shuddered breath as the Undertaker spun him around, forcing Grell to raise his hands to the mortician’s chest for balance and support, and suddenly he was being held rather like a fragile and wanted lady against the hard chest of the older man. One hand came around his waist and rested its hand dangerously low against his hip, whilst the other came up to play with a lock of his hair and began to twirl it with a sort of sultry passion. Grell caught a whiff of cologne and disinfectant, the scents merging together in an obscene sort of way . . . he felt rather lost in the moment. He wanted more, but more felt almost too much.

 

“Has my lady ever heard of the Oriental concept of ‘the red string of fate’?” The Undertaker chuckled to himself and let go of the lock of hair. “It is an old belief that destined lovers are tied together by a long red string, just around their pinkie finger . . . string as beautifully red as my lady’s hair, a finger that looks just like this one . . . hmm, it is an old familiar story, yes?”

 

He lifted his hand away from Grell to show the scar on his pinkie finger.

 

“There was once a small boy who met his betrothed,” the mortician continued with a giggle, as he pressed Grell to him, “but the boy had no interest in romance and threw a stone at his betrothed, causing her to bleed, just about . . . _here_.” He touched exactly on Grell’s eyebrow where the redheaded man had been cut during the Campania incident. “The legend says that years later he married well, but his bride’s face was hidden by a veil, and as they lay on their wedding bed she removed the veil . . . on her face was the scar he left upon her, marking her as his.”

 

Grell found himself taken rather in by the story. It was one that he had heard Lau discuss before with Madame Red, a tale that spanned the ages, but never before had he ever considered the parallels to his own life . . . the Undertaker had done everything he could to get Grell’s attention, he treated him with respect that he never showed anyone else . . . he had taken Grell’s abuse in the past with good humour. He knew when to _bend_ to Grell, but he also knew when to _break_ Grell. He would bring Grell down, but then build him back up, because sometimes things couldn’t be fixed, they had to be rebuilt . . . he _understood_ Grell.

 

He drew in a shuddering breath as tried to calm himself, but the truth of the matter was that he just _couldn’t_ calm down! The Undertaker had placed a long finger underneath his chin, tilting his head up so that Grell was forced to look deep into those beautiful green eyes, and he was leaning in . . . leaning close . . . Grell could feel that warm breath against his lips. His heart raced in his chest. His hands clenched on the Undertaker’s robe. He wanted that kiss more than anything, but there were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things that might get between them . . .

 

“I – I’m not all woman yet,” Grell whispered.

 

“The lady is all woman as far as I’m concerned,” the Undertaker replied.

 

“Well I’m not one to just be used and tossed aside, either!”

 

“My lady may be _tossed_ , but never will she be used. I promise her that.”

 

“O-oh, well, I –”

 

Grell was silenced as the Undertaker pressed his lips against him. It was a forceful kiss, one full of passion and power, and one nothing like Grell had ever experienced before. His time with Madame Red had forced him to play the ‘lead’ role in that play, no matter how wild and vivacious she was, and his relationships with men had always been so one-sided and unappreciated . . . this was so new to him. The Undertaker kept the kiss chaste, but he seemed to be coaxing Grell for more, almost forcing him to part his lips . . . tongue reaching out to taste Grell . . .

 

“Ah! Not today! I – I forgot to shave!”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Grell pushed the Undertaker away with his face flushed red. This was almost as humiliating as when Sebastian caught him in his negligee just before the ball, only this time Grell _wanted_ the reciprocation! He honestly did! It was just that he had never ever played the ‘woman’ before, and even though he felt every bit a woman . . . William had always called him an ‘it’, Sebastian the same . . . he had never suffered such a great depression as the time he had been forced to play the male butler to the beautiful woman. Now he was finally the woman he had always wanted to be! He finally had someone who would treat him like a lady! It was a very strange kind of fear, not one that he had ever faced before . . . what if he failed as a ‘lady’ in some way? He wasn’t complete after all; he couldn’t offer the Undertaker all that another woman could . . .

 

He drew his hands up to his chest in a gesture that seemed to be a little of self-defence, then lowered his head slightly as he looked up with a mixture of awe and embarrassment. There was a chance that the Undertaker would understand, that he would take things slow, but there was also a chance for rejection and a chance that this would be another humiliating encounter like the ones he faced with William or Sebastian. He spun around and headed to the door in what he hoped was a relaxed manner, rather than an attempt to escape.

 

“It would be a shame to waste a day off,” Grell sad nervously. “A real lady needs an outfit for every occasion though, and Ronald has this super fun party coming up! If you want you could always treat me to a new dress . . . let’s make this a _real_ date!”

 

“If you would care to model it for me, I think I could agree to that.”

 

“Let’s see where the date goes first,” Grell snapped with a blush.

 

“Oh, I think I have some idea . . .”

 

The Undertaker giggled as he placed a kiss to Grell’s cheek. The redheaded Shinigami felt weak under the touch, because it was so pure and so filled with respect, a gesture that he hadn’t expected to say the least. It was clear that the Undertaker wanted him in a more physical manner, but there was something more there too . . . something emotional and romantic. If William were to ever find out, he would have Grell’s head! Grell dreaded to think how he would hide his emotions in the office! He would be giggling and smiling for days!

 

“Ladies first,” the Undertaker said, as he opened the door.

 

“And gentlemen last,” Grell teased back.


	4. Chapter 4

# Chapter Four

****

William looked down coldly at the report in his hands.

 

It seemed that his initial suspicions were correct: the dolls were evolving. It confirmed his deepest fears and their prevailing theories, and yet that was somehow far from a reassuring thought. They still had yet to uncover the Undertaker’s true motives, they had yet to discover what purpose these dolls served, and they had yet to realise his location. William hated this feeling of helplessness. If his subordinates had taken in the Undertaker whilst they had the chance, things would be much easier.

 

There was also the rather disturbing fact that there were stilling missing bodies with souls intact, and – as much as William wished to pin the foul crime on the rogue Shinigami – he felt reluctant to appropriate any blame without any real evidence. It didn’t help that Eric and Alan had died so cruelly, or that Grell was still continuing his dalliances with his mystery beau, but he felt some relief at the fact that even a ‘date’ had to have an end, and – knowing Grell – once he had that _happy ending_ then that would be the end to the whole sordid affair. He simply wondered why Ronald seemed adamant on hiding the identity of this new man in Grell’s life . . .

 

 

Grell was a highly professional man that put his work first, before all else. He wouldn’t jeopardise his career to spend his free days making love to a demon, and he most certainly wouldn’t date a rogue without telling William about it first. Grell had priorities. They all did. Work had to come first, because without order there would be only chaos. Still, Grell had promised that his date would only take up the course of one workday, and – as William glanced to his watch – it was certainly past that time. He should have returned by now.

 

“Any more work, Mister Spears?”

 

William felt his eyebrow twitch slightly. It was highly suspicious that since very close to five o’clock – the time that Grell was due back – Ronald had volunteered himself for overtime. True to form, Ronald looked up nervously from where he stood. It was obvious that he was very uncomfortable, probably because he didn’t wish to be given some boring or menial task, but likewise – for whatever reason – he had a reason not to leave the office that required a little sacrifice. He seemed unable to stand still, flitting from foot to foot, as he seemed to cast his eyes about in search of something. William adjusted his glasses with a frown.

 

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be, Ronald Knox?”

 

He sent a cold stare in Ronald’s direction. It only served to make the young blond more nervous, or so it seemed, because immediately he sent an edgy glance to William’s office door and bit his lip as if in thought. No one would blame him if he wanted to leave. William had work to do, and the very last thing he wanted was the distraction of a young man who didn’t seem to know if he were coming or going. Ronald scratched his neck nervously and then turned back with a large smile.

 

“I’m more than happy to be working a little overtime, Mister Spears!”

 

“Is that so? How unusual.”

 

William was past the point of suspicion. It was rather disarming, much like a grounded teenager suddenly offering to do chores . . . something was evidently out of place, but William had yet to figure out what. The reports looked in order, they were on time, and Ronald hadn’t done anything wrong that he could see . . . what was the young blond trying to hide? Grell was late, there was no hiding that, and all the paperwork – for once – had been completed and finished. The only thing left was research, something that William would rather finish alone. He didn’t need his subordinate’s complaints distracting him.

 

“You know how it is,” Ronald said, as he eyed the door. “I’m willing to work a few extra shifts if you got any going, earn a bit of extra cash and all, so how about we go through the rota, you know? We can do it now, if you want.”

 

“I do believe the point of a diversion is _not_ to arouse suspicion.”

 

“Hey, that’s not fair! That’s like you’re saying I serve no purpose other than to be a bad distraction or something. Can’t a guy want extra shifts for his dates and clothes and bar tabs and stuff? Got to budget responsibly and all!”

 

“Is that really your perception of ‘responsibility’? Please stand aside.”

 

William thrust the reports into his subordinate’s hands and walked over to the office door, where – almost at once – he could hear muffled sounds from without, almost as if there were someone trying to move or act without drawing attention to themselves. The sounds were rather unusual. It was almost like a rustling of fabrics, as if someone were trying to dress or undress in a hurry, and occasionally there was a rather high-pitched whisper as though someone were swearing to his or herself.

 

It seemed that Ronald must have asked William for overtime knowing that their was someone outside who oughtn’t be, someone who was trying to sneak past William’s private office without being seen, and – with William’s office opposite their own – it would be impossible to sneak past without a diversion. That Grell was late after an entire personal day wasn’t unusual, especially when the overtime he had volunteered to do was not at all compulsory this evening, but if he were trying to slip into his office without William noticing . . . something was amiss. It was infuriating to be in charge of two such men. It was professionally draining and tiresome.

 

“Mister Spears! I – I spilt ink on my report. Er, won’t that stain?”

 

“You will have to write it again then.”

 

“B-but, Mister Spears, I –!”

 

William stepped outside the door to see a sight that he didn’t think he would ever forget, for better or for worse, for as long as he lived . . . it was moments like these where he wished he had been just a few months older, just a few, because perhaps then he would never have been in the graduating class with Grell Sutcliff. If he had never met Grell then he may have joined a different dispatch branch, maybe even a branch not located in England, maybe one far away, and then maybe he would have had subordinates who could behave without acting like children.

 

“Grell Sutcliff, you have five minutes to explain yourself.”

 

Grell appeared to be midway changing between two outfits. His long and usual coat hid most of his mix-and-match outfit well, but it didn’t hide the fact that his outfit appeared to be the hybrid child of a suit and an evening dress . . . even his hair was an unusual mixture of styles, with half down and half up, almost as if he were in the process of undoing whatever hairstyle he had decided upon. Why on Earth had he dressed so differently for his date to usual?

 

The dress was – admittedly – a very handsome one. It was a sleeveless affair that was rather fancy despite its seeming simplicity, with a silver rose decoration on the right hip that appeared to hold the dress together. The hem appeared ruched; it was also a very interesting shade of silver, much like the rose. There was also a split at the bottom of the dress that reached very high between Grell’s legs. The dress itself was a brilliant shade of red, with what seemed to be matching gloves beneath the arms of the coat, and he wore a silver scarf tied elegantly to his neck. It would have been a very nice outfit for a _woman_ on a _date_.

 

The strange part came from how he wore his usual dark trousers beneath the skirt of the dress, with one foot sporting a heeled boot and the other a red stiletto, and meanwhile his hair was half in a dissected bun. The left half was already down, but the right remained somewhat upright, and a strange – yet oddly familiar – plait lay down the right side as a form of decoration. It was nice how the plait framed his face a little, but very disconcerting to William who couldn’t quite place where he had seen it before. It would have to be removed for work.

 

“ _Can_ you explain, Grell Sutcliff?”

 

“W-well, it’s a rather long story, but look -! I was given the most _beautiful_ of dresses! Ah, I was even able to go into the shop and try it on, just like a real lady! I just _love_ the colour scheme, don’t you? I feel so stunning!”

 

“You can put a pig in dress, but you’ll never make a sow’s ear into a silk purse.”

 

“Wow, that’s harsh, Sir,” Ronald said, as he came outside.

 

Ronald walked over to Grell and offered him a hand. The redheaded Shinigami took it and used the other for balance, which seemed to help considerably in his quest to replace his remaining stiletto with a more fitting work shoe. William tried not to question why Grell couldn’t have changed at his new ‘boyfriend’s’ home, or why he couldn’t have changed in the bathroom before heading to the office, but as it was he was thankful that Ronald seemed used to this routine. It seemed to make changing go a lot smoother with another at hand to help out.

 

“Oh, that brute just doesn’t know how to treat a lady,” Grell snapped. Ronald helped him to slide off his coat and undo the dress. “A lady is like a delicate peach, you can’t just pressthose _hard, prying_ digits all over it, not unless you _want_ to _bruise_ and _break_ the skin! It’s tantamount to abuse! Oh, but _he_ knows just how to handle a lady . . . pressure enough to _hurt_ , but not enough to _break_.”

 

“I would ask who this ‘he’ is,” William snapped, “but I think it best to ascertain why you felt the need to sneak into your office like a vulgar criminal, first. I would also ask that you refrain from undressing in public. It is a disgusting sight.”

 

“You think so?” Ronald asked. “Miss Sutcliff doesn’t really have the body for me, but if I swung that way then I’d probably say she was a bit of a catch.”

 

“Oh, I could just eat you up, Ronald! Thank you!”

 

William glared darkly as the dress slipped down to reveal a nearly bare-chested Grell. He tried to ignore the red corset and the dark bruise on Grell’s neck, – _‘like a peach’, indeed_ – instead he tried to focus on the very positive point that twoof his men had volunteered for overtime. It was a small miracle in itself for even one of them to work after-hours. Grell quickly slid on a work-shirt as Ronald folded up the older man’s clothes, and William – as much as he wanted to chastise Grell – had to admit that _perhaps_ this overly complex undressing was necessary. The dress would have been very difficult to undo with Grell alone, which made Ronald a necessity.

 

“Grell Sutcliff,” William snapped, “why were you sneaking in?”

 

“Oh, well my date ran a little over time,” Grell replied, as he hastily did up the buttons to his waistcoat and stripped off the scarf from his neck. “Afterwards we had a little lunch by the river, then went back to his place for a little _intimate conversation_ , it was all so romantic! Ah, but I know what a stickler you are for rules, and I _did_ promise to do some overtime today to make up for things . . . I just thought you might get a _teensy_ bit annoyed if I were late.”

 

“That would be more believable if you hadn’t asked Ronald Knox to provide a distraction, but I will let it pass for now. I want the two of you in your office as of right now. The bickering and reports can wait.”

 

“Yes, Will, darling.”

 

William ignored the immature pout of the redhead’s lips, or the way that Grell glared darkly at him as if he were the devil incarnate, but he couldn’tignore the way that Grell flipped his hair over his shoulder and pushed a lock behind his ear. He couldn’t ignore it, because suddenly he realised just what it was that had struck him as so familiar earlier on . . . the plait was suspiciously alike the Undertaker’s. No, Grell had better sense than to fraternise with the enemy, surely?

 

William drew in a deep breath to remain calm . . .

 

He watched as Ronald strolled into the office, with his arms filled with clothing, and wondered if he were perhaps too lenient with the pair. Ronald respectfully placed the clothes onto a pile on Grell’s desk, before he wandered across to his own desk and threw himself down into his chair with a loud sigh. He seemed a little exasperated. There was a slight slump to his shoulders and his hands loosely gripped the edge of his desk. It seemed that William wasn’t alone in his disbelief at least, which gave him hope that that least _someone_ in his office had a modicum of professionalism.

 

William pointed inside the office and waited for Grell to move. Grell twirled about with a sigh as he slid on his coat, but when he moved – now looking more like his usual self and with hands filled with hair accessories – that damned plait waved as he moved. The long braid was in the exact same style of the Undertaker, and William knew for a fact that Grell – despite his femininity and obsession with beauty – very rarely, if ever, wore his hair in any style but natural and down. It was too much effort for a man to have perfect hair _and_ make-up, especially when he had a very limited amount of time each morning and between missions. Grell seemed to like flowing, long ‘feminine’ locks. Only one person would have done this to his employee.

 

“That is an interesting hairstyle choice,” William snapped.

 

“You think so? Ah, yes, it was his idea! Personally, I just think he dreams about something to _hold on to_ ; something _long_ and _unyielding_ that he can _wrap_ his fingers around . . . although _Ronald_ says that it’s more of a case of territory-marking.”

 

“Is that so? Hurry up, Grell Sutcliff.”

 

William turned abruptly and stormed his way into the office. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, and he didn’t even look behind him to see if Grell were following, instead he carried on into the centre of the room. Only the sound of the door clicking shut and the noise of heels upon floor alerted him to Grell’s presence, which – it seemed – stopped a few feet behind him. It took all of William’s self-restraint to remind himself that he had no concrete proof that the Undertaker was involved with his subordinate. He would bite his tongue.

 

Grell took a seat gracefully in his chair opposite Ronald, whilst the two shared what could only be described as a ‘look’. William found it amazing that two people could share an entirely unspoken conversation by a series of ‘looks’, but that was exactly what the two appeared to do, complete with the occasional eyebrow movement and gesture with the entire head. What were the two ‘discussing’? They were clearly hiding something. Ronald seemed to be aware – or at least suspicious – of the new ‘boyfriend’s’ identity, so perhaps that was what they hid, because they knew how their superior would react. Ronald eventually sighed in what seemed to be defeat. Grell, meanwhile, huffed and searched for his mirror and make-up bag.

 

“So,” Grell asked, as he applied a fresh layer of lip-gloss, “is there a reason we were _forced_ back to the office? It hardly seems fair when we were promised that this would be _voluntary_ overtime, only for you to _tie_ our hands and _drag_ us here.”

 

“If you volunteer for overtime, you do overtime.”

 

“I only offered so you would let me have the day off, you brute!”

 

“I only offered because Miss Sutcliff paid me ten pounds to be a distraction,” Ronald said in a rather sullen manner. “If I knew I’d be forced into overtime, I’d have asked to be paid by the hour instead.”

 

“Paid per ‘ _distraction’_ or paid by the hour?” Grell asked with a devilish smile. “Do you treat all the ladies that way or just the _special_ ones?”

 

“Hey, that’s not what I meant, Miss Sutcliff! You always twist –”

 

 _“Enough,”_ William snapped.

 

William snatched the eyelash-curler from Grell. He slammed the device hard onto the desk, then turned and ripped the chewing gum from Ronald’s hand and slammed that down also. It seemed that he only had to look away for a moment for the pair to become distracted, and he had no doubts that if he turned around again he would find the pair with their hands occupied once more, because nothing – _nothing_ – could be ‘too boring’ when it came to procrastinating from doing their job. If he could find a subordinate who did his work, rather than doubling it, then he would die a truly happy manager indeed. He began to despise his job.

 

“I would like to know who you have been seeing, Grell Sutcliff.”

 

Grell seemed to bristle at that question. He leaned back into his chair and folded his arms across his chest, before he crossed his legs and looked petulantly to his side and purposely avoided meeting William’s gaze. There was a faint blush to his cheeks, a slight pout to his lips, and he seemed to narrow his eyes as if he were glaring at some unseen spot in the distance. He was hiding something. If Grell lacked a reason to be ashamed, he would have giddily told William everything . . .

 

“Oh, William, you’re not _jealous_ , are you?”

 

“Unfortunately, I do not appear to have sustained any head injuries as of late.”

 

“Oh, you’re so cruel! It’s always just like men! A lady can make herself look beautiful all she likes, flirt all she wants, but do any of the men in her life pay her any attention? Not one bit! Then suddenly she’s off the market, and then _everyone_ wants a piece of her! Oh, it gives me _shivers_ to know I’m so wanted! I’m so _hot_ that I’m positively _flaming_!”

 

“‘Flaming’ sounds right to me,” Ronald chuckled.

 

“Silence, you! I don’t need to be mocked by someone who is barely legal to drink!”

 

“Is that so, Grell Sutcliff?” William said coldly. “Nor do _I_ need to take attitude from a man so _disgusting_ that the only way he could buy someone a second drink is to spike the first one beforehand. Who braided your hair?”

 

Grell appeared to blush quite deeply. It was not rare to see the redheaded man’s cheeks flush darkly, because to William it seemed that this man’s default emotions were ‘arousal’ and ‘humiliation’, but it was highly suspicious when Grell refused to answer a straight question. Where was his flowery and poetic speech? Where was his innuendo-laden dialogue that did nothing but irritate and annoy the superior man? William drew in a deep breath as he felt the silence to be answer enough.

 

It was then that Ronald let out an awkward cough. He seemed to have something to say, something that caused Grell to jump and lean on his desk with both elbows, but as the flamboyant man started to wave his hands about conspicuously, Ronald instead ignored Grell and gave their manager a rather embarrassed look. Ah, so finally it seemed that one of them would be responsible enough to tell him the truth. Ronald scratched the back of neck in a nervous gesture, and then looked up over the rim of his glasses to look at William’s face. Grell, meanwhile, seemed to be unsubtly begging him to remain silent . . . Ronald was – at least – reliable.

 

“I braided it, Mister Spears,” Ronald said.

 

William felt his eyes twitch in frustration. Grell clasped his hands together before his chest and let out a long gasp, and yet it was the smile on his face – more than the gesture – that felt the most annoying part of it all. It was clear that Ronald was covering for his older colleague, but he couldn’t _prove_ that. He couldn’t punish Grell unless he could prove he had done broke a rule in some way. It didn’t help the matter that Ronald gave a V-sign and a cheeky wink, as if adding insult to injury.

 

“I braided it for his date with that black-haired dude from Personnel,” Ronald continued with a cheerful tone, “thought it’d impress the guy, you know? Everyone has heard about how our Grell took down all those zombies, thought if Miss Sutcliff wore it that it might make a good conversational piece! Totally worked, right? We’re talking about it right now!”

 

“So it has nothing to do with the Undertaker?” William asked, as he glared down to Ronald with a stern gaze. “The rogue Shinigami currently evading our attempts at retrieval? I am relieved, if that is the case. I merely hope that you realise that he may be at the heart of our current investigation. His dolls may be evolving.”

 

“Really, Sir? Good job that Miss Sutcliff’s not dating him then, huh?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Ronald’s almost victorious smirk, Grell’s rather relieved smile . . . it was a wonder at all that they were so superior at espionage than he was. It may have been that he had worked with them for so long that he had grown used to the subtle nuances, or perhaps that they simply knew that without solid evidence that William’s hands were tied, so there was very little reason to hide it better than what they were doing, but – whatever the reason – they were being far too conspicuous.

 

William gave a loud sigh and turned his back to them.

 

“Can I trust you both to get back to work?”

 

“Sure thing, Mister Spears!”

 

William adjusted his glasses and began a slow walk to the office door, at which point he turned to give the two men a strong and severe look. There was a very small part of him that didn’t wish to see Grell be maimed or killed by some rogue, but another part of him understood that his subordinate brought much of it upon himself, and yet the last part of him – the greatest part – realised the danger of fraternising with the enemy. He didn’t want the older Shinigami to destroy their society or do countless damage within the living world, nor did he want his employee to be heartbroken when he inevitably realised he was being used simply for information . . .

 

“I hope this is the last we hear of that ‘deserter’,” William said.

 

“Well, until the next time he attacks, right?”

 

“Quite . . .”

 


	5. Chapter 5

# Chapter Five

****

“Hmm, back so soon?”

 

Grell slammed the door to the funeral parlour hard. It had been a rather tough few days, what with William deadly serious about giving him extra overtime for the one day that he had ‘dared’ to take off. It simply seemed that his manager was _adamant_ on keeping him in the office and out of trouble, but it was really cutting into his social life, so much so that suddenly Ronald no longer seemed to be a complaining child, but a man with an awfully good point. It was all just so frustrating!

 

It _certainly_ hadn’t helped that the Undertaker had apparently failed to notice his absence these past few days, almost as if he didn’t even _care_ that Grell had gone. He simply sat by a coffin and kept his back to Grell. There was a shroud cast over the body inside for dignity’s sake, although the arms and face were bare, and the Undertaker appeared to be sewing something alongside the side of the coffin closest to him, which was out of Grell’s eye-line from where he stood. He worked slowly, but elegantly. He brought back the needle with long and exaggerated movements, whilst he appeared to hum to himself, and – meanwhile – Grell stood at the door waiting for some elaborate welcome that never came.

 

“I’ve been gone for five days, you git!” Grell snapped.

 

“Yes, but time is so relative,” the Undertaker said with a giggle. “I imagine every second ticked by so terribly slowly for my lady, but for my _customers_ time goes by in such a flash. There just never seems to be enough. Every little moment of their lives is like an _episode_ of a story, one that they never get to see _end_ of . . . do you ever not wonder how the story ends for the dead?”

 

There was something worrisome about this man. His profession would have condemned him in many cultures as an untouchable, in fact it wasn’t really an acceptable profession even by the modern morals of the day, and yet he was _drawn_ to it with a passion that put men like Grell and William to shame. He seemed to _live_ for _death_. It was fascinating and horrifying all at once! Why was it that he seemed to find beauty in the morbid, what was the cause for his obsession with the macabre? Grell knew that there was something more than met the eye – something darker and more dangerous than it seemed – but it was hard to believe the absolute worst . . .

 

“I can’t say that I ever have,” Grell snapped. “Anyway, _here_!”

 

Grell pulled out a sketchbook from within his coat. He threw it hard at the back of the Undertaker’s head, which – despite the silver-haired man deeply involved in his little ‘embroidery’ project – seemed to do little to distract him. The book fell to the floor with a flutter of pages, but opened up to reveal a sketch of Grell lying in a tailor-made coffin, an image that had – in all honesty – worried Grell. There was a part of him that thought it typical of the Undertaker, another part that found it sinister . . .

  
The Undertaker turned a little to look down at the book, but kept his hands hidden inside the coffin. There was a rather dark smile on his face, something infinitely difficult to interpret, but his eyes seemed to turn to Grell with a fearsome need and a dangerous form of anger. Grell didn’t know how to respond. If he had annoyed William or Sebastian, they wouldn’t have hesitated to beat him bloody, but the Undertaker seemed to remain calm and collected. He also appeared to respect Grell _more_ for it. How did he appear both angry and respectful at once? It made Grell swallow hard and lick his lips instinctively, because he suddenly felt like prey. It felt like the other man was devouring him with his eyes. 

 

“Ah, my notebook! Did my lady like what she saw?”

 

Grell shuddered as he watched the older man continue sewing. It wasn’t clear what he was sewing, – perhaps a tear in the coffin’s lining – but he did not take his eyes away from Grell. He worked effectively blind. Had he performed this job so many times that he no longer had to look, like touch-typing or mental arithmetic? It was nice to finally have someone’s full attention, but at the same time he knew that he _didn’t_ quite have that full attention. If the Undertaker was content to continue working then it meant that there was something, no matter how small, just a little bit more important than Grell. That irked him.

 

“Oh, what do _you_ care? You’re just like the rest of them! The words of love _fill_ your mouth so easily, but they _taste_ so bitter when _ejaculated_ with any _real_ feeling. It leaves a lady feeling like its all just lip-service!”

 

“Isn’t that the greatest praise of all?” The Undertaker chuckled to himself, as he drew up his arm high to reveal the long red thread. “Look at my customer here. He has my warm body to hold his hand and sit by his side, but his soul has no idea how what respect I hold for him. How strange it is that actions speak louder than words, when words are the only thing with such volume.”

 

“If that’s the case then your drawings don’t mean anything, do they?”

 

The Undertaker paused for a long moment. His lips seemed to curl into a dark smile and the laugh that escaped his lips felt dark, muffled by the closed mouth and the desire to hold back, and Grell felt shivers race down his spine. The way the Undertaker lowered his head cast him in shadow, the way his silver hair ran down his face framed his expression, and – all in all – Grell felt the danger and darkness radiate from this man, almost as if he sought to disarm and disorientate Grell. It was hard _not_ to feel awed by such an aura. This was a man who knew how to take control without abusing power.

 

“Perhaps you are right,” the mortician said thoughtfully. “Next time, I shall have to write you a sonnet instead. Still, did my lady like what she saw? If life is nothing but a cinematic record, then art is but the record of life.”

 

“Is that right?” Grell pondered, as he leaned forward with hands on his hips. “Well, if you _must_ know, I was rather impressed by the art. The symbolism was a little on the nose, what with that damned brat kissing a skull or yourself with that bloody skeleton, but they were all so romantic and beautiful! The way you _command_ the pen, the way you _pull it hard_ across the _pale_ and _untouched_ paper, letting the ink _spill_ and _stain_ . . . it sends shivers down my spine! I only hope you draw more of _me_ next time!”

 

“Perhaps I shall . . . if only you would care to _lend_ a _hand_?”

 

Grell paled considerably . . .

 

The pale mortician reached into the coffin to pull the body up into a sitting position, and – for the first time – Grell was able to see the damage done to the body. This man had not died in a pleasant or quick way at all. It seemed that his body had been hacked into small pieces at every joint, so that fingers were in three pieces, wrists were severed from forearms, forearms from arms . . . Grell had seen many dead bodies though. He wasn’t an expert at anatomy, but he could tell this man had been kept alive for a _very_ long time. He probably had only died when decapitation came.

 

It seemed that in death – at least – someone cared for him. The Undertaker had taken painstaking care to sew up every piece of the man back to its original place, so that he finally began to look _human_ again. The only piece missing was the left hand. It was an awfully sinister pose, with the Undertaker waving a stubby forearm at Grell with a low chuckle, and – in _his_ black-nailed digits – he held the hand of the man that had yet to be sewn on. He waved it at Grell like a child might wave the hand of a puppet, and something inside Grell churned and felt rather sickened. Oh, yes, the visual pun was rather amusing in a morbid sort of way, but he worried what it might mean to take as a lover a man who thought _dismemberment_ to be a laugh and a half.

 

It was beyond understanding. How could a man collect body parts like stamps, yet then – with those same hands – create works of art or sincerely offer useful information to people freely? He _helped_ people. He had been an associate of the Phantomhive family, he had taken tea with Grell, and he had a fighting style to be envied by the world over. Why did such a man – so great, such a legend – take joy from the horrors and the mundane?

 

“If I gave _you_ a hand, I’d probably lose it in the process.”

 

“Yet you come back day after day after day,” the silver-haired man said with a laugh. “It seems that you are drawn to dangerous men. It makes me wonder: is this beautiful lady drawn to _danger_ because she seeks for someone to _break_ her and _hurt_ her, or is she rather drawn to _strength_ as she seeks for someone to _fix_ her and _protect_ her? Or could it be a little of both, perhaps?”

 

“Y-you fiend! Why on _Earth_ would I want to be _broken_?”

 

The Undertaker gently laid the body down to rest. His tools – the thread and the needle – he placed beside the coffin, but the shroud he replaced and the hand he placed beside the arm. It was such a deep form of respect, one that he rarely showed the living, and – just for a second – Grell thought he understood what the Undertaker saw. This was a body reduced to its original state. It was a human that could not lie, cheat, steal or kill. It was almost pure in its impurity.

 

Grell folded his arms across his chest and gave a sharp pout. It seemed that his offended state didn’t mean much to the Undertaker, who merely walked across the room to wash his hands and brush down his robes. When he did eventually walk back over to Grell, he appeared somewhat more serious than usual and a lot darker also, with his green eyes focussed entirely upon the redhead and his smile crooked in a menacing manner. He reached up and lifted Grell’s chin with his finger. It was hard to stay angry when someone so handsome was so close to him that their bodies nearly touched, whilst he leaned in so close that his breath was warm on Grell’s lips. He sometimes wondered if this mortician had any sense of boundaries.

 

“There are some who are drawn to death,” the Undertaker said seriously. “Those who find it fascinating and incomprehensible, those who seek to conquer it, and others who seek to succumb to it . . . depression, fear, madness . . . so many reasons why it is preferable to life, but always it’s an escape, an end. I wonder if a person who is told that they are worthless, day in and day out, by the men she loves and admires, would perhaps come to believe such words.”

 

It was hard not to take the Undertaker’s words to heart.

 

There was that deep and dark fear that perhaps – just maybe – he was being manipulated in some way. This was, after all, a man who was rogue and dangerous, a man who sought to undermine all that the Shinigami stood for, and a man who was more content to play games than to show his true face. It was tempting to believe him, to fall for the romance and beauty of what he said . . . there had only ever been one other person in his life that had understood him, but she had failed him . . .

 

The Undertaker was right. There hadn’t been a day in Grell’s recent memory where Sebastian or William had showed him an iota of respect, but then neither had so many others . . . it _certainly_ hadn’t defined Grell’s opinion of himself. It was simply that he saw himself as a beautiful lady, one that would make an excellent mother to a needing child, and yet his body was so dreadfully masculine. He felt . . . _trapped_. Oh, the world could keep treating him like some awfully commonplace man, but he knew that – inside – there was a vibrant woman waiting to get out! It was hurtful when people _denied_ that part of himself, but the Undertaker never denied it. Not once.

 

“I’m not as weak as you seem to think,” Grell snapped.

 

He slapped the Undertaker’s hand out of the way and glared darkly at the older man. It was frustrating indeed for someone to assume that they knew how he felt, because no one – except someone else who endured the pain of infertility – would know the pain of being trapped in a body that betrayed their gender. He felt his cheeks puff as he tried his best not to sulk, but when the Undertaker’s hand lingered in the air and his expression appeared so innocently clueless . . . Grell growled.

 

“The only time I’ve ever _welcomed_ death is when I was forced to play the role of a mere butler,” Grell shouted. He pointed his finger angrily at his partner’s face. “It’s one thing to _want_ a man, but a very different thing to _be_ a man! Oh, it was positively awful! It was like a living death, like being one of your dolls! I don’t care what others say about me, but just so long as it’s _me_ that they say it about!”

 

“My! It seems that my lady is full of life and passion, it –”

 

“Oh, quiet, you!”

 

Grell jabbed his finger angrily at the Undertaker’s chest. It seemed that the older man was rather surprised by the redhead’s anger, because – almost at once – he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Grell leaned forward, this time invading the Undertaker’s space, and glared at him darkly as he continued to jab him hard in the centre of his chest, before he pressed forward and forced the Undertaker up against the edge of his desk. The older man placed his hands on the edge of the desk for balance. It was clear that Grell was pushing his luck, – the Undertaker bending backwards to accommodate the redhead – but he pushed regardless.

 

“I don’t want to hear how much you bloody admire me,” Grell spat. “If I wanted _that_ , I’d have stayed in the office with Ronald! If you love me so damned much then _why_ haven’t you _missed_ me? Why aren’t you _excited_ to see me? Oh, you may _stand to attention_ when I enter, but I have yet to see you _spill your soul_! Who’s to say that –?”

 

“Ah, my lady! Still confusing lust with love, still confusing what she wants . . .”

 

“I know what I want! I want you to stop being as cold as your corpses! All a lady wants is to be shown a little love, a little romance, a little compassion . . . ah, it warms my soul to think of such sweet embraces and tender words!”

 

“If that is what my lady wants . . .”

 

The Undertaker reached up and took Grell’s hand in his. It put an immediate stop to the poking and prodding, something that made Grell wary and attentive, but it wasn’t an overly aggressive or lustful hold. He didn’t seek to break Grell _or_ to take him, but rather he merely held onto that hand as if he were _truly_ holding the hand of a lady . . . it felt as if he were _asking_ for Grell to quiet, rather than demanding quiet, but also merely enjoying the touch for what it was. It felt . . . special.

 

He raised Grell’s hand to his lips and kissed it chastely, before he stepped beside the curious redhead and took a hold of his arm in a gentle and intimate manner, and Grell – despite his anger and frustration – found himself melting against the touch. No one had ever held him like this before, no one had ever wanted to politely walk alongside him or escort him to another place, and no one had ever treated him like a lady, but the Undertaker did. His cool hands touched upon Grell’s, his arm interweaved with Grell’s, and he allowed the redheaded man to lean against him and rest his head upon his shoulder. He felt taken care of. He felt safe.

 

The Undertaker let out a little chuckle and led Grell across the funeral parlour to an old door, one that Grell hadn’t before noticed. It worried the younger Shinigami a little, because – as much as he wanted to trust this eerie man – he knew exactly what he was capable of and the damage that he could inflict, and if the Undertaker’s intentions weren’t completely pure then Grell could be putting himself in grave danger. So why was it that – as his heart raced and his mouth ran dry – that he found himself yearning for more?

 

It was then that the Undertaker opened the door . . .

 

Inside was a large back room that had been transformed into something like from one of Grell’s romance novels, which – at once – made his heart melt and his breath stop. The entire room was a vibrant red! There were red drapes across every surface, with red curtains over the windows and red cushions scattered about, and everywhere – at every place – there were dozens of beautiful red candles all aflame, giving off a natural and vibrant light. He had even made a little nest on the floor, beside the stacked coffins and worktable, with red blankets and pillows and even what looked to be red wine in a chilled bucket with a red bowl of strawberries. It looked more like a lady’s boudoir on her wedding night than a mortician’s workshop, complete with red rose petals scattered about as if all just for Grell. It was beautiful!

 

Grell felt his heart stop for a brief moment. This was such a beautiful sight; one that proved his chosen man had anticipated his arrival and _had_ looked forward to it after all! He wanted to show the Undertaker his gratitude. He wanted to take advantage of the setting and the romantic atmosphere, but the fear and sense of unease held him back. He _knew_ what William and Sebastian felt, as awful and angry as their feelings were, but the Undertaker . . . he was so mysterious! There was no knowing _what_ his intentions were! There was no knowing what he wanted.

 

“You were expecting me after all?” Grell asked uncertainly.

 

“Of course,” the Undertaker replied with a chuckle. “I pay more attention to serious matters than one may think. Not only are the most serious things often the most humorous, but also even the most innocuous event can prove most vital to one’s survival. If I wish to remain in my lady’s heart, I must remain observant to her feelings, even when she herself knows not what she feels.”

 

“Just when I thought you were finally being romantic -!”

 

Grell stepped away and flicked back his hair with a loud sigh. His silver-haired companion merely stood by the door and chuckled to himself, as if he had just thought of something highly amusing. It should have perhaps been disconcerting to hear the door click closed behind him, he knew that he should have felt trapped and cornered, but – in actuality – he felt as if he finally _belonged_. No one had ever gone to such trouble for him before, and this _was_ an awfully romantic setting . . .

 

He stepped over towards the scarlet nest on the floor and slid off his coat beside it, which – in all honesty – made him feel somewhat vulnerable. His coat was his only keepsake from his relationship with Madame Red; it was something that he always wore with his uniform, and without it . . . well . . . he worried that he looked far too masculine and not enough feminine. He also worried in case it became damaged or lost, but if the Undertaker could endure without his lockets then Grell could endure one night without his coat. If the night went the way he planned, he would probably end up wearing a lot less anyway.

 

“Is this what my lady expected?”

 

Grell drew in a sharp intake of breath as he felt strong arms wrap around his waist. It was such an intimate gesture, one that relied on trust and affection, and yet – as the Undertaker embraced him from behind – he found himself relaxing in that warm hold and enjoying the way it felt to be wanted . . . to be needed. He rested his head back as the older man buried his head into the crook of Grell’s neck, and as Grell blushed he realised how lucky he was to have found someone to accept him so fully.

 

“Well, not quite,” Grell said with a smile, “but I suppose it’ll do.”

 

“My, my! You _are_ hard to please, hmm?”

 

“And you’re just hard-headed!”

 

“Amongst other things.”

 

“You brute!”

 

It was that comment that truly riled Grell. There was nothing worse than when a man spoiled the moment with crude and coarse comments! What Grell wanted was poetry and romance, sensuality and beauty, not sexual innuendos that felt awfully literal, which was a terribly disconcerting realisation in itself . . . Grell felt his cheeks blush a considerable amount and threw himself out of the Undertaker’s arms. Well, at the very least that cleared up a few things concerning his motivations.

 

Grell dropped down onto the blankets and pillows, as he tried to keep his breathing steady and his eyes from looking away in nervousness and uncertainty. He leaned against what felt like a coffin shrouded in red silk, before stretching out his legs and taking one of the strawberries from the bowl, and – as he raised the berry to his lips – he smiled up at the Undertaker and gave him a wink. He then managed to wipe that ever-lingering smile from the rogue’s lips as he took a bite in the most sensual way he could muster, complete with a rather long moan of enjoyment. He almost expected the Undertaker to jump him then and there, but instead he merely sat down beside him.

 

“How interesting,” the Undertaker said with sincere interest, “you seem to reject me when I reciprocate your invitations, but then invite me further with your seductions. If I do not know how you feel, then perhaps you could enlighten me?”

 

“W-well, I wouldn’t be adverse to _that_ , I suppose . . .”

 

“And what is ‘that’ exactly?”

 

“Oh, you know full well what ‘that’ is!” Grell said as he swallowed the rest of the strawberry and licked his lips clean. “It’s the joining of two bodies! The feeling of love _boiling_ up inside as it finally _rises to the occasion,_ and then the _burst_ of affection as it _spills over_ and _stains_ the skin with the feelings of the soul!”

 

“My! What an interesting definition of love!”

 

The Undertaker laughed to himself as he removed his overcoat and robes, revealing a rather simple black outfit beneath, albeit with the thigh-length boots that Grell had always deeply admired . . . it was amazing how such a simple fashion accessory could sexualise the older man, yet make him seem all the more menacing at once. It suddenly felt like a much more intimate setting. Grell turned his head to look away from the Undertaker; the very _last_ thing he wanted was to get distracted and let his guard down, but . . . would it be so bad if he _did_ give in? Just a little?

 

“Well,” Grell snapped, “what do _you_ define love as?”

 

“Hmm? I suppose, if my lady is asking, I see love as the process of death. Love, like death, is about _rebirth_. We chain ourselves throughout our lives, owing to others what can only be owed to ourselves, but when we fall in love . . . ah, then we shake off those chains and free ourselves! There are compromises, yes, but it is far better to share a bond with another than to shackle oneself to dozens out of obligation. Unless my lady _enjoys_ chains, in which case I am more than happy to accommodate.”

 

“A lady doesn’t allow herself to be _tied down_ so easily.”

 

“Well, ‘tis more the pity,” the Undertaker said with a chuckle. “I wonder if perhaps the _joining_ of two bodies is merely an expression of the trust from the soul. Love does seem to make puppets of men . . . and death dolls of the living . . . how funny it is! We give up a part of our identity for love, we sacrifice what we once were, and perhaps that is the thrill of consummation? The true _little death_?”

 

Grell blushed as he bit his lip nervously.

 

There was something both chilling and telling in the Undertaker’s words. The way he saw life and death as intrinsically linked, as love and grief twinned together as one, it was romantic – there was no denying that – and yet terrifyingly morbid. Grell wanted someone willing to die for him, but he somehow got the impression that this man – the man he so wanted – would willingly sacrifice him if the need be, because _that_ was love to this man. Loss.

 

Grell wanted to turn away from him, to walk away, but he understood. _He understood_. There was nothing more beautiful than love, it was something that he spent his lifetime searching for and dreaming about, but there was a pragmatic part of Grell that was forced to believe that love was not meant for him. Oh, he had come close _once_ . . . perhaps so too had the Undertaker . . . but that love had fallen short, almost like the dénouement of a Shakespearean tragedy. Ah, perhaps it was simply that his ideals for love were too pure for the world to realise, or maybe his standards were simply too high, but in his search for perfection his hopes had been wildly dashed! The Madame had disappointed him, and such disappointment was disillusioning indeed.

 

This man though . . . he was different. He was everything that Grell had envisioned, and perhaps he had also loved and been left heartbroken, perhaps he was also left unable to trust and reluctant to love again, and yet here he was . . . pouring the chilled wine into a glass for Grell. The redheaded man nervously accepted the glass and took a slow sip as the Undertaker turned to lie down. He seemed to make even lounging look sensual and elegant, with one leg raised and head resting on a raised hand, and as he lay he watched Grell intently.

 

“I admire my lady’s life and passion,” the Undertaker said.

 

“Well, spend your day surrounded by corpses and dolls, even that bloody _brat_ would start to seem like scintillating conversation. Oh my, this wine is positively delicious! It’s simply to _die_ for!”

 

“I am glad to hear,” the Undertaker said. “I wondered how it might taste . . .”

 

The silver-haired man reached up to take a hold of Grell’s tie, and – at once – pulled him firmly down to lie beside him. Grell squeaked a little as he found himself pulled gruffly beside the eerie mortician. The wine spilled over the rim of the glass, spattering Grell’s white sleeve with red drops of what looked to be like blood in the candlelight, and yet there wasn’t time to become annoyed. It seemed that the Undertaker’s hands were already making short work of his tie . . .

 

Grell drew in a shuddered breath as the knot became undone, the striped tie loosened considerably, and suddenly – as the long length of material was thrown aside – he felt a rough pair of lips pressed against his own. The kiss stole his breath away. It wasn’t a kiss as soft or yielding as Madame Red used to give, but one hard and commanding, one that controlled and consumed. It sent shivers down Grell’s spine. It forced him to reach up and dig his fingers deep into the Undertaker’s shirt, and as he gasped at the sensation of another against him – the feeling of finally being able to give into another – he opened his mouth and allowed the Undertaker entry.

 

That seemed to be the only invitation the Undertaker needed. Immediately Grell felt the other’s tongue push inside his mouth, exploring him with a fiery intensity, and there was a faint and strange taste that Grell couldn’t quite place. The kiss was unlike anything Grell had felt before, so he was forced to reciprocate. He could barely breathe through the passion involved, he couldn’t think or feel anything other than the pleasure that coursed through him, and when the Undertaker pulled away – the same devilish grin as ever – Grell felt completely lost.

 

“Delicious, indeed,” the Undertaker whispered.

 

“I – I mean – that is – ”

 

Grell jumped as he realised that his glass had tilted during the kiss. He hadn’t realised that his left hand had hung limp in surprise, or that the wine had spilled all over the red sheets just behind the Undertaker, and yet it had. The wine stained the sheets – and the mortician’s shirt – and left them as crimson as the blush that dusted Grell’s cheeks. His lips still tingled with the aftermath of the kiss. They felt slightly bruised, but he liked the feeling . . . it was like a reminder of what had happened.

 

“Y-you just kissed me!”

 

“I thought that was what you wanted, _Grell_?”

 

The way that his name was spoken did things to Grell that felt oddly pleasant. It was the first time that the Undertaker had referred to him by name in recent memory, and that thought made the situation feel all the more personal and intimate. The smile on those lips was beautiful, if not oddly disconcerting, but whilst Grell – mouth opening and closing in search for the right words – tried to collect himself, it seemed that the Undertaker had other things in mind. Those long, pale fingers on one hand seemed to be intent on undoing his sleeve-garters, whilst the other hand took the glass from Grell and placed it carefully to the side.

 

“Of course it’s what I wanted!”

 

“Then why so surprised, hmm? Did you not enjoy it?”

 

“Oh, it was positively perfect!” Grell paused as the Undertaker laughed wildly under his breath, garters now banished somewhere to the side. “But that isn’t the point, you git! As much as I’d love to get you _purring_ , I’ve only ever been _tomcat_ and never the _pussycat,_ so you can’t blame a girl for being a _little_ nervous! What if I get my claws in too deep? I wouldn’t to scar you more than you _already_ are.”

 

“What’s pleasure without a little pain?” The silver-haired man began to undo the buttons on Grell’s waistcoat. “I should think that you would be happy to play the lady for once, to be treated as the woman you are and not the man you seem.”

 

“Well, you may be right about _that_.”

 

Grell took the initiative to pull the Undertaker down for another kiss. In all honesty, he perhaps worried about things moving slightly too fast, but they had been seeing each other for a few weeks now, and the silver-haired mortician was perhaps the only man to ever show him respect. He took control of the kiss, pulling the Undertaker on top of him as he rolled onto his back, but Grell knew that being on top didn’t necessarily mean being in control. It seemed the Undertaker knew that too.

 

He allowed the older man to remove his waistcoat, leaving him slightly more exposed than he otherwise was, but he didn’t allow the kiss to break. The kiss was more than enjoyable, something that he had always hoped for but never before received, and it was exactly what he thought a kiss with a real man would be like. He dominated the kiss and duelled his tongue with the Undertaker’s, whilst the other man began to tear open his white shirt. Grell wrapped his hands around the other’s neck. He pulled off his gloves and weaved his hands into the silver hair, before he began to tug at the Undertaker’s shirt, desperate to remove it and gain access to some skin.

 

“Still nervous, Grell?”

 

The Undertaker pulled away from the kiss with a smack of lips, leaving Grell leaning upwards and reaching for more. He gave a sound of disapprovement, and then pushed Grell so hard upon the chest that the redhead was forced down onto his back, albeit grateful for the soft cushions . . . the force of the push would have given his head a nasty bruise if it weren’t for the soft covers! He gave the Undertaker a dark glare, but the Undertaker merely removed his black shirt and white undershirt.

 

“W-well,” Grell said, swallowing hard, “it’s hardly my maiden voyage.”

 

“But these _are_ undiscovered waters.”

 

Grell swallowed hard as he looked at the Undertaker’s bare chest. He was too distracted to take much note of the fact that the older man had reached down to slide off his own white shirt, or the way that the other’s hair fell like a curtain around Grell’s face to shield out the candlelight. The only thing he could focus on was the way the warm breath felt against his lips, the way their bare skin felt just a mere inch apart from one another, and the sight of that body . . .

 

The beaded necklace he usually wore remained around his neck, and Grell could feel the cold beads against his chest in a way that felt almost sensuous. There were scars across his chest, especially so around his neck, and yet the scars only served to make him appear more masculine . . . more powerful . . . it sent chills down Grell’s body. It was overwhelming to see such a beautiful man right above him, one so deathly pale and yet so otherworldly and exotic. He was thin, just enough to see the outline of his ribs, but his arms were toned and with muscle, and Grell couldn’t help but admire him. He was certainly handsome.

 

“No second thoughts?” the Undertaker asked. “I hardly have the body of Sebastian and I imagine your William’s body is in far better condition than this old thing. If you wish to back out, now would be the time to do so.”

 

“D-don’t make me slap you, you idiot!”

 

“Hmm? So you like what you see? That is a relief.”

 

“You know full well that I like what I see! Oh, I think I could positively get _lost_ in those eyes, and you have a body to die for! I just hope that _every_ . . . _last_ . . . _bit_ of you is as _hard_ as those abs.”

 

Grell licked his lips. He placed a warm hand on the Undertaker’s chest and slowly began to trace it downwards, as he placed a chaste kiss upon the other’s lips, their lips parted just enough to give it true meaning. Grell’s trailing hand should have been sensuous, but he made sure to use his sharp nails to his advantage, scratching deep red marks into the pale skin, until he reached the waist of those black trousers. He forewent unbuckling the belt and paused. Then – with a burst of confidence – he moved his hand further downwards to grasp the other’s developing erection.

 

The Undertaker gasped loudly and reached up to take a hold of Grell’s hair, burrowing his hand so deep into the red locks that – when he gripped – he did so tightly that it felt to Grell as if it were being pulled from the roots. Grell hissed at the sharp pain, but then found himself moaning as the Undertaker began to kiss and suck upon his neck. His tongue was rough and hot, which caused Grell to harden and instinctively spread his legs to accommodate the man between them, and as the Undertaker forced his head to the side – biting and sucking hard upon his neck – Grell knew that there would be a bruise to show for the older man’s actions. Still, he couldn’t help but arch his back and moan aloud.

 

It felt good to relinquish some control. He no longer had to worry about if he were doing the right thing; instead he only had to enjoy what was happening . . . to feel loved and wanted in a way that he had never before felt . . . it was emotionally overwhelming. Grell drew in a shaky breath and removed his hand from the other’s clothed member, and instead began to make quick work of the belt upon his waist. The Undertaker merely chuckled to himself and licked upon Grell’s neck.

 

“One doesn’t have dessert before they’ve had the starter,” he muttered.

 

“W-what?”

 

The Undertaker pulled himself upright into a sitting position. He looked down at Grell with a hungry and ferocious gaze, his lips plump and eyes dilated, and across his chest lay red and swollen marks caused by Grell’s earlier scratches. His trousers now lay open, with clothed member straining through the gap in the fly, but he seemed unperturbed by this and kept his gaze strictly upon the redhead beneath him. He bent down and placed a long lick from Grell’s navel to his collarbone.

 

Grell bit his lip to hold back a moan. He was usually quite vocal, but given the circumstances he felt it best to hold back. It felt like a battle for control, Grell’s passion versus the Undertaker’s needs, and every time one of them gave in to the pleasure – letting out small moans or sighs – it felt like an acquiescence of power. He reached down to take a hold of the Undertaker’s hair, to wrap his hands around that head and guide him to wear he wanted it to go, but it seemed that the older man had other plans. He snatched Grell’s hands by the wrists and forced them to each side of his waist, preventing him from moving.

 

He began to place small and gentle bites all over Grell’s stomach, each time sucking upon the mark to soothe it and ease it, whilst being careful not to bruise, and yet by the time he reached Grell’s chest – which heaved with needy breaths – he laughed loudly behind his closed mouth. Grell’s hands clenched at the sheets. He didn’t know why the Undertaker laughed, but he was beginning to feel more than aroused at that point, so that his legs were up and wrapped around the Undertaker’s waist, and his back was arching with need and want.

 

Then the Undertaker bit down around his nipple . . .

 

Grell dug deep into the sheets and cried aloud, back arched violently. It was both painful and exquisite, the feeing of teeth clenched around the areola was far from pleasant; in fact it felt like he had drawn blood or at least bruised the skin, but the way his tongue lapped upon the nipple itself, those lips sucking upon it . . . it sent waves of pleasure throughout Grell’s body. He felt himself harden considerably. He wanted to reach up and hold onto the Undertaker, but he couldn’t. He needed more.

 

“L-let me go,” Grell snapped. “It takes two to tango, you know!”

 

“Ah, but someone must take the lead.”

 

“Listen, _you_ , at the very least – _oh my, stop that_!”

 

The Undertaker had stopped tormenting his nipples, he had even released his wrists, but now he had made his way further down . . . so that his mouth rested over Grell’s clothed erection . . . and he sucked and palmed it with great skill. Grell raised his hand to his lips and bit hard. He could taste the iron of blood as his other hand clenched at the sheets, and the Undertaker – perhaps oblivious to Grell’s sensuous torture – continued his assault on the man’s lower half.

 

It seemed that he had already undone his belt. Grell half expected the older man to devour him then and there, but it seemed that the Undertaker had something else in mind. He removed his mouth – leaving a wet stain upon the red panties and black trousers – and slowly pulled down Grell’s trousers down to the ankles, making sure to kiss and stroke down his legs as he went, making what should have been a simple act into a rather personal and sexual one. Even the way he paused to undo the heeled shoes, removing them and the garment to reveal Grell almost completely, made Grell’s heart race in his chest and his mouth water in anticipation. The Undertaker seemed to relish in tasting Grell and feeling him. He seemed to love every moment.

 

“Do you still wish me to stop?”

 

Gartered legs and socks soon followed, with the Undertaker placing kisses and bruises over Grell’s feet and lower legs. It seemed – just as Grell could stand it no longer – that the silver-haired man began to move his way back up to the parts of Grell that mattered, letting his long hair and beaded necklace tickle and tease the redhead’s skin and causing him to shiver and shake. He had never felt this way before. He had never been kept so on edge and off-guard, with all the control left to another. It was a thrill unlike any other. The pleasure devoured him.

 

It may have been the daze of those kisses and love-bites, perhaps the distraction of immense arousal, but – for some reason – Grell failed to notice the sound of material sliding across the floor . . . it was only when he felt the soft touch of the scarf across his wrist that he felt something a little _odd_ was going on. In a few seconds his wrists were pulled violently together and tied so tightly that – no matter how Grell struggled – he couldn’t free himself of their hold. The end of the scarf was wrapped around what seemed to be a table leg, situated above Grell’s head. Grell could hear his heartbeat pounding in his eardrums, as his body lay completely and utterly exposed, and he could only hope that the Undertaker was as trustworthy as he seemed.

 

“Do I have much of a choice?” Grell snapped angrily.

 

“My lady _always_ has a choice,” the Undertaker replied. “Just so long as that choice is always _me_ , then I am always obliged to obey.”

 

“ _Hardly_ a choice then, is it?”

 

“True, indeed . . . after all, not many people could refuse me.”

 

“That – that isn’t what I meant, you bloody idiot! Now shut up and kiss me!”

 

“Hmm . . . perhaps later.”

 

Grell strained at his bonds and cried aloud. No time was wasted at all by the Undertaker who – in his haste – had ripped off the redheaded man’s underwear, and at once he lowered his head to take in Grell’s erection whole. The skill involved was admirable, or would have been had Grell been capable of coherent thought . . . there seemed to be no strong gag-reflex on the rogue’s part, no hesitation or uncertainty, and he even managed to keep his hands occupied just as much as his mouth.

 

The pleasure was outstanding. It was pure bliss! Grell could feel those deft hands playing with his testicles, massaging them and rolling them, whilst the heat of the Undertaker’s mouth enveloped him and consumed him. Grell dug his nails into the scarf, feeling the burn as the material already began to chafe at his skin, and the more he groaned and cried the more the Undertaker did tricks with his tongue that had Grell seeing stars. He would lick and stroke Grell’s tip, occasionally pulling away to blow cold and hot air alternatively along the redhead’s aching length, and at times – as if to torture Grell – he would let his teeth scrap lightly along the sensitive skin. Grell was caught between tears and screams of ecstasy.

 

It was when Grell opened his mouth again, as he cried loudly as the pleasure began to grow too intense, that he felt choked and silenced. The Undertaker removed his mouth – ceasing the mind-blowing feelings – and laughed deeply, whilst he crawled up to place his mouth inches from Grell’s . . . Grell’s that was stuffed full with three of the mortician’s digits. His eyes watered. He hadn’t expected his airway to be virtually blocked by such an intrusion, but he instinctively began to lick and lap those fingers, desperate to get a feel for them, to get them to where they should be . . .

 

“A natural redhead _and_ a natural talent,” the Undertaker whispered.

 

The fingers were removed. Grell gasped loudly and drew in vast amounts of air, desperate to breathe again, and yet the Undertaker seemed to care not that he was half-choking and half-lost in desire. The silver-haired man consumed him in a kiss, one that was deep and full of passion, and allowed his hands to travel down to those parts of Grell that were private and forbidden. Grell raised his legs to wrap around the other man’s waist. The leather boots and trousers were cool against his hot skin.

 

It was then that the first finger was pressed inside Grell. These were the moments where he wished that he were a _real_ woman through and through, because the accommodation of his partner would surely go so much quicker and much easier. There wasn’t pain, – not by any means – but there was a slight discomfort. The Undertaker seemed to move with the curve of his body, sliding in slowly and gently, and the feeling was – although strange – not entirely dislikeable. It was the second finger that gave the stretch, just the slight beginnings of a sting, and yet it was still strangely enjoyable almost . . . Grell clenched around it experimentally.

 

“If you relax, this will be much easier . . .”

 

“R-right -! I – I knew that!”

 

“Of course you did.”

 

It seemed that to ‘relax’ was easier said than done. When the Undertaker pushed within the third finger, it was truly when Grell began to feel actual pain. He felt the stretch of a ring of muscles previously unopened in his past sexual encounters, he felt like he may be torn if pulled any more, and he felt a dull burn in his inside. It wasn’t enough to make him want to stop, but it was enough to make his eyes water and his teeth bite hard into his lips, with hands scrambling for purchase on the scarf that bound them. He felt like a maiden being used for the first time, and – perhaps – that was the case exactly. He just hoped that the pain remained minimal.

 

The Undertaker kissed him again, but this time used his free hand to play with Grell’s sensitive nipples. It sent waves of satisfaction through the redhead’s body, along with the kiss that muffled his groans and gave him something to at last latch onto, and made the stretching from within more bearable. He tore at the scarf holding him down, whilst the Undertaker played with his insides and sought to prepare him properly. Grell couldn’t help but love it and hate it all at once.

 

“Last chance, Grell,” the Undertaker said quietly.

 

Grell growled at his partner and clenched as hard as he could around those invading digits, that – although it didn’t do much – certainly got his message across rather plainly. He completed the action with a firm thrust of his hips and by tightening his smooth legs around the Undertaker’s waist, and as he felt the mortician chuckle silently he lifted his head to try and bite him, but – unfortunately – the Undertaker moved away at the last moment and avoided the sharp bite.

 

“Eager, I see. That is good. Very good indeed!”

 

The hand was removed rather quickly. It left Grell feeling rather bereft and empty, as he felt his inner walls pulsing in need for what had been taken away . . . yet when he looked down he saw the Undertaker had pulled out his member from the opening of his boxers. The one part of him that Grell had been most desperate to see was finally revealed to him, and that sight had him positively moaning and writhing beneath the Undertaker. He certainly wasn’t disappointed.

 

It wasn’t that the Undertaker was the most well endowed man he had seen, but he certainly was highly impressive. He had a great length to his erection that assured Grell it would reach all the important places, but it wasn’t thick enough that Grell had to worry about being split in two, all in all it was just . . . perfect. Oh, there would many to call it ‘average’, but not Grell. He licked his lips and waited for what was to come. It tortured him to see the eerie mortician spit upon his palms to lubricate the erection, not least because he worried that saliva wouldn’t be adequate, but because that he wanted to touch it . . . hold it . . . _taste_ it. It should have been his hands and his lips lubricating that length of flesh, no one else.

  
The Undertaker lined up his erection with Grell’s waiting hole. Grell braced himself, albeit he tried to simultaneously tried to relax to avoid the oncoming pain, but the Undertaker merely began to hush him gently, like one would a waking babe. One hand parted his buttocks and kept a hold of the tip of the erection, whilst the other came out to stroke the redheaded man’s leg and stomach, massaging him and caressing him to ease him and relax him. Grell released an exhale of breath that he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

 

“Easy now . . .”

 

Grell winced a little as he felt the head press in. The pain was a lot more than he expected, although it wasn’t quite excruciating. It felt like an _extremely_ uncomfortable medical exam, albeit one that left him feeling impaled and stretched in two, and as he hissed loudly the Undertaker simply chuckled and pushed in further. The mortician refrained from pushing in to the hilt; instead he went mostly in and waited for Grell to adjust . . . Grell who could already feel a tear slide from his eye and the rather intense discomfort from below. He dreaded to find out how it would feel with the added friction to come, but somehow he welcomed it too.

 

“Perfection.”

 

The Undertaker pushed in the rest of the way. Grell let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a cry, as he clutched hard at the scarf so much that it nearly cut off his circulation. It was painful, but not quite yet unbearable. Still, it was almost worth it for the deeply erotic expression painted on the Undertaker’s face. The older man had his eyes half-lidded as he pressed deep inside Grell, his deathly pale cheeks and chest flushed red, and his expression was one of pained pleasure.

 

He leaned down upon one arm to kiss Grell, laughing a little when his long hair got in the way and caused the redhead to splutter awkwardly, and then – once the kiss began in earnest – he used his free hand to reach between their two bodies. He took a hold of Grell’s length and began a flow – yet firm – stroking of it. It was enjoyable enough to remind Grell of exactly why he wanted to continue, causing his breath to stop and his heart to speed, and his kisses became sloppy and broken as he focussed on the pleasure from that hand and the pain from below. Then the Undertaker moved. It was slow at first, nothing more than subtle and very shallow movements, as if he were trying to get Grell used to it. Then suddenly he began in earnest . . .

 

He started to thrust quickly and forcefully, which caused Grell to let out a muffled rhythm of pants and moans. There was nothing soft and gentle about it, instead it seemed that he was sating a voracious hunger, and yet – as he pounded painfully into Grell – he continued to kiss him with complete love and affection. He maintained eye contact. He smiled warmly, as he whispered kind words through the broken kisses. He stroked Grell in time with his thrusts and made high-pitched sounds of pleasure.

 

It was strange how the Undertaker could gaze at him with adoration, never breaking his gaze for even a second, but then thrust into him with such strength that it felt as if Grell might break at any moment. God, how he enjoyed it though! He loved feeling every thrust, even the pain and the discomfort, because with every jolt he felt _connected_ to the man he loved, he felt as if _finally_ he had found someone to love him and want him and all for who he truly was. Then – without warning – the Undertaker hit something within Grell that had him seeing stars. It was the most astounding feeling that he had ever felt.

 

Grell screamed loudly. His hands clenched so hard at the scarf that his skin became deathly white, and his throat felt raw as he arched his back to the point of breaking. The Undertaker was past the point of laughter, instead he growled possessively and thrust almost manically inside his lover, twisting and pulling at Grell’s member in a way that was both very painful and extremely pleasurable. It was such an intense mixture of feelings! Grell wanted to use his hands, to scratch down the Undertaker’s back and mark him as his, but he was tied . . . he couldn’t move . . . instead he could only endure the overwhelming sensations as the other man aimed for his prostate.

 

“Ah – oh – _oh God_!”

 

“I’m . . . the only one . . . you should call for.”

 

“If – if I had a name -” Grell gasped.

 

The thrusting continued hard and fast. There was a slapping noise from below, complete with the Undertaker’s grunts and groans of enjoyment as his hair became plastered to his forehead with sweat. They kissed once more. The pleasure built and built inside Grell, as his insides flexed and clenched around the invading length, and suddenly Grell could stand it no longer. He bit the Undertaker’s lip as the climax took hold, tasting blood in his mouth. He screamed. His chest felt warm with his release, and his vision became hazy and blurred.

 

“ _Grell_. . .”

 

Grell was already coming down from his high when the Undertaker came. It felt hot and wet within Grell, which instinctively caused him to clench around the pulsing length, and he could feel the harsh sting of salty semen against the parts of him that had torn in the passion. The body above him shook wildly. The Undertaker’s mouth opened wide as his body became flushed red, and he kept a dark and lustful gaze on Grell who watched him come.

 

A few moments later and it was all over. The Undertaker pulled out, which drew a long hiss of pain from Grell, and untied his lover’s hands. Grell hadn’t realised just how numb his arms had become, or how exhausted the act had left his body, and – as he pulled his fingers down to his chest – he felt aches throughout his thighs and a cruel sting from within. There was the uncomfortable feeling of semen and a little blood seeping out from him, but also the feeling of warmth as the older man dropped down beside him and rolled him over on top. He was lying on the Undertaker. The older man even grabbed a red throw to drape over him, with arms wrapped around him, so that they were embracing under the covers. It felt good.

 

“That was _hardly_ ‘making love’,” Grell complained.

 

“They _do_ say that love hurts.”

 

“Yes, but it isn’t supposed to leave one bruised and bloody! You’re damned well lucky I’m too exhausted to break your nose; otherwise _you’d_ be the one bloody here! Still, you have talent, I’ll give you that.”

 

“Hmm? Then perhaps my lady would care for an encore?”

 

Grell drew in a deep breath and looked down at the Undertaker. The truth was that he _did_ enjoy himself, it had been rather intense and passionate, and he had almost passed out when he came. Still, it wasn’t right that he had been tied up and bruised all over, not when the Undertaker was still deathly pale all over and hadn’t an injury to show for it, and – well – Grell was certain he couldn’t get any more sore than he already was, so a little bit of role-reversal wouldn’t be _too_ awful . . . it would be nice to ride on top for once, maybe bloody up that white skin a little too.

 

“You know,” Grell said devilishly, “I think I just might.”


	6. Chapter 6

# Chapter Six

 

“My lady seems a little . . . _distracted_.”

 

Grell couldn’t help but flinch at those words.

 

He drew in a deep breath and huddled against the Undertaker’s body, as he breathed in the deep and heady scent of his partner. It felt strange for the older man to be so damned observant after something so intimate. Grell had expected him to merely fall asleep, or to go get cleaned up, but he hadn’t done either of those things . . . he held Grell . . . he stayed by his side. He seemed to _care_ about Grell’s feelings. It was something Grell had never experienced before: should he be honest or should he say what would make the Undertaker happy?

 

It was difficult to know howto act. In Grell’s experience people often took offence to him no matter _how_ he behaved, such as physical abuse that often came regardless of how professional he acted, or complete disdain that remained despite the times he had acted maturely . . . he would hate to disappoint his new lover. Now that the lovemaking was over, what did the Undertaker expect from him? Madame Red had been the sort that had enjoyed being held; she would bear her soul to her lovers, but she would never find the time to listen in return. William and Sebastian – despite never being physical with Grell – had only made him feel as if he hadn’t been _worth_ their respect. The Undertaker was the first person to put _Grell_ first.

 

He was just so _different_. He knew exactly what Grell wanted, but – more than that – he knew how win a lady’s heart and how to make them feel like the only woman in the world. The lovemaking had been rough, but the love that came after -! Oh, the Undertaker had been forceful and bruising, marking Grell’s wrists with his scarf and even pulling hair from his head, but afterwards -! It was simply so nice to be held! Those arms around his waist . . . that head buried against his neck . . . those kind words . . . ‘I love you, Grell’.

 

Grell smiled and let out a little giggle.

 

“Oh, I’m just a little lost in thought,” Grell admitted.

 

Grell nuzzled against the rogue Shinigami and hummed a tuneless tune. It felt almost like perfection to have those warm arms wrapped around him, those long nails tracing patterns on his back alongside the remains of deep cuts, and he couldn’t help but appreciate the scent of sweat and cologne and disinfectant – unique to this man – that wafted from the long hair by his side. He just wanted to get lost in that embrace, to forget about the world outside of the parlour. It all felt right.

 

“Hmm? Do you not care to be lost in _other_ things?”

 

“Hush you,” Grell murmured. “I was lost in my own little world, that’s all. You can’t blame a lady for being a _little_ distracted, not when there’s a handsome man in such close proximity . . . it’s _hardly_ fair.”

 

There was a deep chuckle from the Undertaker. It made his chest vibrate and Grell’s head bob up and down where it rested, and – despite Grell’s sigh – the young redhead couldn’t help but feel as if he were finally sharing in the joke rather than _being_ the joke. The blanket that covered Grell slipped slightly to show a slither of skin on the shoulder, and yet – far from being embarrassed or flirtatious – Grell felt completely natural and at peace. It all felt so . . . _right_.

 

Then again he had been so hard-to-get before, so much in control, and yet now he had given the Undertaker exactly what he wanted. It wasn’t as if he doubted the Undertaker’s motives, but the older man _was_ still on the run and hiding an infinite amount of information from them, it wasn’t as if he were being entirely honest with the Shinigami, but still . . . Grell liked to think that he was being honest with _him_. Still, it was hard not to shake the niggling doubt that something wasn’t quite right. No one had ever gone to the trouble to treat Grell like a lady, no one had ever valued his opinion or looked to him for an answer, Grell had always been just a nuisance . . . until he met the Undertaker.

 

“ _My_ ,” Grell said sadly, “after _that_ you can hardly refer to me as a ‘lady’ . . . ”

 

“You have no need to worry, my dear.”

 

The Undertaker reached up onto the lid of a coffin. His bare hand scrambled around as he sought for Grell’s glasses, and – with a rather gentle movement that left Grell blushing nervously – he placed them back upon Grell with his usual smile. It felt strangely intimate, almost more intimate than the act of lovemaking itself, and now that he saw the Undertaker clearly his embarrassment came to the forefront. He pulled the covers closer to his chin, hiding what had already been seen.

 

“You will always be a fine lady worthy of respect.”

 

“I – I will?”

 

“This was merely an extension of your passion and an expression of your love,” the Undertaker said with a low chuckle, “and what could be more ladylike than that? You needn’t hide from me, Miss Grell. It doesn’t matter that I have seen you from every angle, because I have seen in here something much more precious. You have a heart that even my clients would envy.”

 

“ _Well_ ,” Grell said with a smile, “you certainly know how to make a lady feel wanted, I’ll give you that much. You’re nothing like William at all!”

 

Grell nuzzled into his lover’s side and pulled the covers up around them. He could feel the Undertaker’s cool hands pressed against his back, the arms that pulled him into a tight and loving embrace, and he could even feel the man’s legs entangled with his. It was such an intimate position, so close and so personal, and Grell couldn’t help but enjoy the makeshift bed on the floor – thankful that he hadn’t been expected to make love in a coffin – and the dozens of candles lit about the room.

 

Red and silver . . .

 

This moment was nothing like he imagined. There wasn’t a pile of red clothes with black, or a Sebastian mewling in his ear, or a William indignantly working on paperwork in bed instead of talking with Grell . . . instead there was nothing but silver and red. It was _better_ than the fantasies. Grell’s long locks seemed to bleed into the Undertaker’s . . . the silver hair of the older man cascaded over them both like a blanket, it merged with the scarlet hue, it seemed to wrap within it so that the two colours became indistinguishable . . . Grell couldn’t help but notice how perfect – how beautiful – it looked. It was almost symbolic. They were intertwined. They couldn’t be separated anymore. He knew that every moment in the future would be perfect like this, because every moment would have this silver-haired man in it.

 

It was a moment that Grell had dreamed of his whole life. He could simply be himself and be loved for who he was by an equal, and to feel that warmth of love both physically and emotionally made him feel so special! It was the first time that he hadn’t needed to make love as a man, a role that always made him feel so _suicidal_ to be forced to play, and for the first time he needn’t feel like he was emotionally alone when the deed was done, because someone genuinely wanted to care for him! He’d never forget the moonlight reflecting from those green eyes . . . so _perfect_!

 

The only thing that could break the moment was the soft – almost broken – question that escaped the Undertaker’s lips. His question was emitted upon Grell’s neck, with hot breath teasing an almost painful love-bite, and without that usual laughter it was such a biting question that it made Grell almost guilty to have spoken at all.

 

“Do you wish me to be more like William?” the Undertaker asked.

 

“If you’d have asked me that a few months ago I may have said yes,” Grell said honestly, as he entwined his hand with his new lover’s. “I used to think William may have grown to _love_ me simply because he showed me _attention_ , but that seems so foolishnow . . . I would always get so excited to see him, only to be hideously disappointed when he’d hurt me and beat me . . . perhaps it says more about _me_ that I was willing to put up with such cruelty.”

 

“It says that you were a romantic soul desperately hoping for meaning,” the Undertaker said with a dark chuckle. “Still, I’ve seen demons pay their charges attention, but that doesn’t mean that they care about them any more than that final moment of the contract’s completion! Such a strange association you had.”

 

“How many times must I tell you to _shut up_? Look, I don’t feel that way now! You taught me something, and that’s love should be about equality and respect, and with you I _certainly_ feel respected . . . even when I’m just being _felt_.”

 

The Undertaker laughed heartily and kissed Grell upon his neck. They were soft kisses at first, barely there, like the fluttering wings of a butterfly, but soon they became harder and more passionate, almost like he sought to consume Grell’s flesh. When Grell turned his head – hoping to meet the other’s mouth with his – he found the Undertaker had pulled away with a roaring laugh. Grell frowned at first, but soon he found himself rolled over onto his back, the Undertaker sitting above in an almost sexual position . . . Grell blushed.

 

“I feel so honoured, my lady,” the Undertaker said. He reached out for a cloth on the nearby coffin lid and began to lovingly wipe down Grell. “It’s nice to know that you no longer crave the caresses of a man so brutally cold, but how can I be sure that it’s _me_ that you want instead? I may be just a rebound, hmm?”

 

“You fiend! Do I look like a lady for ‘rebounds’?”

 

“No, but you do look like a lady that needs to be ‘ _bound’_.”

 

The Undertaker dropped the cloth and ran his hands down Grell’s arms. It was a sensuous and almost intimate gesture, until he reached the redheaded man’s hands and intertwined them with his, as he then pulled them up high above Grell’s head and pinned them in place with just one hand. It _would_ have been a nice lead in to some foreplay, were it not for the fact that the Undertaker had just told him that he was nothing but a man who slept around! Well, if _that_ was the way the Undertaker wanted to play it, he could damn well wait until Grell had an apology!

 

Grell waited for the man’s hand to trail down to his hip, and then – when he leaned down just enough to curtain off Grell’s view with a long, silvery fall of cascading hair – the redhead growled loudly and threw his head upright. He felt a satisfying crunch and heard a loud yelp of pain as the Undertaker jolted back and instinctively reached again for the cloth. His nose was bleeding pretty badly, in fact Grell could feel a trickle of blood on his forehead that must have come from his lover’s wound, and – as the Undertaker applied first aid – Grell merely touched the blood upon his head and then licked it from his finger. The move was _almost_ sensuous and seductive.

 

“It seems I underestimated my lady’s sadistic side,” the Undertaker said tersely, as he checked the cloth to see if the bleeding had stopped. “If you wish to explore this side to our relationship, I would not be adverse to it, but I must object to random attempts at breaking my nose during foreplay.”

 

“Well, _I_ object to being called a whore!”

 

“May I ask when you ever heard such a word escape my lips?” It seemed the bleeding had stopped as the Undertaker threw the cloth to one side. “I would never prepare candlelight, incense, or a romantic meal for a mere ‘whore’.”

 

“You just teased me about using you for a ‘rebound’, and you implied that all I enjoyed from this encounter was – was _that_! I’ll have you know that this lady is a lot more than just a sexual creature! I like you a lot. You may be sadistic, twisted, and _horrendously_ dressed . . . but you _do_ have some good qualities that I admire. I slept with you because – for _some_ unknown reason – I love you.”

 

“Ah, tell me, what ‘good’ qualities do I have?”

 

“Oh, why are men so _vain_! You’re supposed to tell me how beautiful I am, how _deadly_ intelligent, how funny and interesting, and how _extremely_ talented in bed that I am, so good in fact that I made you see stars . . . _not the other way around_!”

 

Grell folded his arms defiantly. He was pouting, but the Undertaker either didn’t notice or didn’t care, or at least not from the way he stood up slowly and let the covers fall down to bare him completely. It was difficult indeed not to become distracted. Grell brought the extra covers up around him, nestling into them warmly, but when he looked up he couldn’t help but feel that passionate flame inside him all over again . . . the Undertaker just looked so _deliciously_ good without those heavy black robes, and so he was just so well . . . _proportioned_. 

 

“So,” the Undertaker said with soft and teasing laughter, “you think I’m handsome, smart, and good in bed? I’ll try not to let the compliment go to my _head_.”

 

“ _Bastard_!”

 

Grell picked up the cloth and threw it hard at the silver-haired man.

 

Oh, he was just _incorrigible_! No, he was nothing like William, because William for one thing wouldn’t make such crude jokes or – for that matter – _any_ jokes, but it wasn’t as though that made William any more respectable . . . Will was so formal, so polite, but he was always so _mean_. The Undertaker may have mastered innuendo and entendre to a degree to make even Grell envious, but he only ever did it in jest, in gentle teasing, as one equal to another . . . he did it to show affection.

 

The redheaded man rolled onto his side and nuzzled his head into the covers, breathing deeply so as to inhale the Undertaker’s scent. It felt so nice and warm in his new nest upon the floor, and whenever he looked up he could see the naked form of the Undertaker wandering about the funeral parlour. He seemed to be tidying as he went and collected clothing from about the floor. Grell held back a dark blush as the silver-haired man reached down to retrieve a red undergarment not far from Grell’s face, leaving him with a rather intimate – yet spectacular – view of the man he had came to adore so much. Grell wondered where his coat had gone as he noticed it absent in the Undertaker’s arms . . . he hoped it wasn’t damaged.

 

“So,” the Undertaker said with a giggle, turning to wink at Grell rather mischievously, “do think that I could _rise_ to the occasion? I would go to any _great_ _length_ to please you, my lady. Why must you look so _hard_ upon me?”

 

“You are _not_ funny.”

 

“Really, I’ve always thought so, perhaps we should ask our guest?”

 

“Guest?”

 

Grell cricked his neck and looked to the left with a short sigh. The Undertaker’s humour was – like many in his profession – rather dark and so Grell was left wondering what sort of morbid sight would await him . . . honestly, it was impossible to tell whether the man was serious or joking most of the time. It led to a sense of mystery, but it also led to a sense of frustration . . . sometimes it was nice to simply be told one thing and for it _not_ to mean another.

 

He half-expected to see a recent coffin, opened to reveal a corpse that he might recognise, but instead he simply saw a pair of feet under the gap of the closed door, ones that looked strangely familiar . . . it seemed that they certainly had company. It was difficult to tell who it could be, particularly as the gap underneath the old door was only an inch or so, but clearly they were demon or Shinigami, someone strong enough to enter this far undetected and someone who knew that the Undertaker was still in hiding in his old haunt. It was frustrating considering that the doors _clearly_ said that the shop was closed, but – alas – some people just had _no_ understanding of etiquette!

 

It was then that the knocking began to on the inner door. Grell growled to himself, frustrated that someone would dare invade their inner sanctum. The sound of the knocking was frantic, heavy and hard upon the wood, and it was clear that entrance was being demanded and not requested. It was rather strange considering that – to Grell’s knowledge – the Undertaker had no business planned for today, and Grell _certainly_ wasn’t expected back at the office in a hurry. Well, if it were Sebastian then Grell would just have to let him know that he was _far_ too late! A lady’s heart was a fragile thing, once broken it could never be repaired! Oh, his heart belonged to the Undertaker now and the Undertaker alone! No matter how badly Sebastian or William would beg for him, cryfor him, _die_ for him, he would not respond in the slightest!

 

Oh, but it was _so_ unfair! Whoever was knocking caused the Undertaker to call out that he would be answering the door once decent, which meant that he was now adorning his body with that horrendously long robe and dark trousers, trousers that covered the pale flesh that Grell had so come to love! He even ruffled his fringe to hide his eyes, and draped a scarf over his chest and around his waist, almost as if _that_ would make him look like he hadn’t been undressed all along, but his legs . . . well, there wasn’t enough time to strap up the boots.

 

“I’ll get it, my lady.”

 

The Undertaker had barely reached down to unbolt the door when it was rudely pushed open, almost as if their ‘guest’ couldn’t wait. The silver-haired man straightened his outfit and blinked a few times in surprise, the door barely missed him by an inch as he quickly moved to one side, and – at this movement – it seemed that the visitor had taken it upon himself to assume that this was an invitation to enter. The Undertaker merely chuckled and went to the task of putting on his boots, whilst the young man barged in. Grell was extremely embarrassed as he hid under the covers.

 

“Ah, time to get up, Miss Sutcliff! I’m here to get you home!”

 

“Excuse me!”

 

Grell sat up abruptly, wincing just a little as his weight shifted and a sharp bout of pain shot through him. He clenched the covers close to his thundering heart, his cheeks were so hot that they were brightly burning as red as his love for his new beau, and he couldn’t help but feel oddly exposed as his red hair cascaded down his back like water. He wanted to run and hide, but with his body completely bare . . . if word got back to William he’d be in so much trouble!

 

“Er, if you wouldn’t mind?” Ronald asked. “Just if we’re late then Mister Spears might dock our pay for the day, plus I don’t want to risk running overtime . . . say, this _was_ consensual, right? Just you’re looking a bit black-and-blue.”

 

Ronald leaned forward in the doorway.

 

One hand rested on his hip, whilst the other adjusted his glasses to take in the scene before him. To Ronald’s perspective it probably _did_ look rather unsettling, especially with Grell bruised and lying somewhat bloody and naked beneath the sheets, whilst the Undertaker chuckled – now fully clothed – by the doorway. The blond man looked as if he were using every last ounce of self-restraint not to attack the rogue Shinigami. His eyebrow twitched and so did his hand at his waist. It was as if he were tempted to go for his Death Scythe first and to ask questions later . . . not that Grell would have acted any differently were their roles reversed.

 

Ronald eventually sighed and ran a hand through his blond hair, before he checked his watch with a loud huff of frustration. Grell tried not to blush wildly, the Undertaker merely tried not to laugh hysterically, but Ronald seemed to just be caught between embarrassment and frustration. He even shook his wrist, as if that could somehow change time in some way or form, and then sent a dark glare to the Undertaker that expressed his dislike of the man perfectly.

 

“I mean,” Ronald said darkly, “Mister Spears would forgive us for being late, if it turned out that _he_ had hurt you in some way. I’d be ashamed to call myself a man, if I just turned a blind eye and all . . .”

 

“Of course this was consensual, you twit! How weak do you think I am?”

 

“Ah, sorry, Miss Sutcliff! I didn’t think you were too weak to defend yourself, but he’s pretty strong and you don’t know _what_ he’s got in his cupboards! There could be anything in his tea! It’s like you said; it could be poisoned! Plus, you have bruises all over your neck and I think that’s blood on your head . . . sure I don’t need to get my scythe out? I got it fine-tuned just this morning!”

 

Ronald smiled almost childishly. It was almost as if he were _excited_ for the chance to get his scythe out and cause trouble, and – perhaps – he was. There were days when work seemed to drag on and a lady would _kill_ for a chance to test her skills, but lately it seemed to be nothing _but_ action and adventure during work hours, plus there was simply no way to avoid overtime if they were to get into a fight at this moment in time. Grell felt almost honoured that Ronald would risk overtime for him, but – at the same time – it felt a little insulting that his _junior_ would assume him to be nothing but a damsel in distress! Grell was quite capable of defending himself!

 

“Keep your scythe away!” Grell snapped furiously.

 

“You sure? I mean if you wanted to get even with him, now would be the time! Oh well, I guess there will be plenty of chances to bring the rogue in some other time, right? So . . . any chance of some tea and biscuits?”

 

“No, there bloody isn’t! Look, you’re ruining the mood! _Why_ are you even here? I’ll remember this next time you bring a pretty girl back to your flat!”

 

“Aw, don’t be like that! Oh, hey, here -! Catch!”

 

Grell glared across the room darkly, whilst Ronald snatched up some sort of red cloth from the floor. It was absolutely ridiculous to have someone so young tell him what to do, least of all when they were interrupting the glorious afterglow of the ‘morning after the night before’, and – frankly – he would be having some very harsh words with Ronald later on. He seemed to be immune to the harsh smells of chemicals and disinfectants; he also seemed to be unusually perky and peppy. The Undertaker merely stood to one side – now completely dressed in immaculate condition – and chuckled to himself. Grell was ready to start shouting, but no sooner did he open his mouth did his vision go black. Ronald had thrown something at him!

 

The nerve of that bloody -! Grell huffed loudly and used one hand to free his vision from the cloth covering his head, only for him to see – once it was pulled free – that it was his precious coat. Grell used the coat to hide his bare chest, but he refused to move until Ronald at the very least turned away and gave him some privacy, not that the blond brat seemed to understand that. Ronald merely put his hands on his hips and leaned forward with a wide grin. It was just so casual . . . almost as if no one noticed that Grell was still naked in an after-glow!

 

“I need more than just a coat, if you expect me to leave this room!”

 

“Hmm?”

 

The Undertaker gave a dangerous chuckle and walked across to the makeshift bed. It seemed that the clothes he had earlier spent collecting – underwear, trousers, waistcoat, _everything_ – were in his arms . . . Grell couldn’t remember having seen the man put away the clothing, but already they were back in his grip. He gave a loud laugh and then dumped the clothing unceremoniously on Grell’s head. The redhead growled loudly under his breath. If it weren’t for the fact that standing naked before Ronald would probably result in a sexual harassment claim, he would have soccer-punched the Undertaker hard in the stomach.

 

“You bastard! You should treat me with more respect!”

 

“Are you _sure_ this was consensual, Miss Sutcliff?” Ronald asked, as he sent the Undertaker a very cold stare and took a step closer. “I wouldn’t even treat a one-night stand like that, let alone a long-term lover.”

 

“For the _last time_ , yes, this was bloody consensual! Now turn around and give a lady her privacy! _Honestly_ , why are you even here?”

 

“Oh, I’m supposed to take you back to the Library!”

 

Grell expelled a stony growl. Ronald had turned around, which gave Grell the privacy he needed to get changed, but that he would be expected to go into work – _on his precious day off_ – was a vile insult! Oh, it wasn’t Ronald’s fault, not at all, but William was being quite ridiculous! How had he even known where to find Grell? Did he _truly_ suspect that Grell was dating the Undertaker? What the hell was he basing his suspicions on? He certainly couldn’t have _proof_.

 

The redheaded man stood up with a sigh and used the blanket to wipe down his body, which – whilst embarrassing enough – was made worse by the fact that the Undertaker was watching him rather hungrily from atop a coffin. The older man sat leaning back, fringe covering his eyes and legs crossed casually, and simply chuckled to himself as he watched his lover stand bare in the cold and darkened room. The candles had run low and were now extinguished. The early morning light was slow to penetrate the room. Ronald rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited, and Grell – tempted to give the Undertaker a show – tried to remain mature and dress as quickly as possible so as to get the awkward situation over with.

 

If Grell were honest with himself, he thought that Ronald seemed to be a little bit annoyed. Ronald had always been relatively good at hiding his emotions, and he wasn’t one to explode in verbal tirades or physical acts of violence, which was something that he certainly hadn’t learned from his superiors and older peers. Still, there were always little tells that Grell had grown to learn, such as the way his eyebrow would twitch or the way his eyes would narrow, even the way that his voice became oddly robotic often gave away his frustration . . . still, it was _Grell_ who ought to be annoyed, not _him_!

 

“The _Library_?” Grell snapped.

 

“Huh? Yeah, Mister Spears says it’s an emergency. Say, are you decent yet? We’re in a hurry and better get going. The last thing we need is for you to walk into the library naked, I mean the last time you did that –”

 

“S-shut up! That never happened! Besides that, I _told_ you that I’m not going back! It’s my day off and I’m staying here!”

 

“Miss Sutcliff?”

 

Ronald risked turning around – albeit very slowly, in case he had to turn back – and gave a huge sigh of exasperation. He kept one hand on his hip, the other hung loosely at his side, and he cocked his head with a raised eyebrow and a look of frustration. He seemed to be a little sceptical of what he was seeing. He was clearly worried that Grell had been taken advantage of, but also clearly annoyed that management was taking advantage of them both. It was supposed to be Ronald’s day off too. He walked over to Grell and stood not far from him. Grell was thankful to be fully clothed.

 

“You kind of have to . . . Mister Spears issued a state of emergency, I think. He says to come and fetch you back right away, that all personnel without extenuating circumstances must return to their usual duties effective as immediately. He said I should try here if I couldn’t find you, you know, ‘just in case’ . . .”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Meaning,” the Undertaker interrupted with a giggle, “that our William is so concerned about fraternising with the enemy, that he’s inventing a ‘state of emergency’ in order to force you back into the office. It’s legitimate, but I will concede that it’s highly unethical. Section Five, Subsection Six-C, paragraph four. You really should tell William that he won’t be allowed to do this _every_ time I bed his subordinate.”

 

“You’re kidding!” Ronald said with a laugh. “No one tells Mister Spears anything!”

 

“That could be taken in several ways . . .”

 

Ronald gave a somewhat blank stare. He was oddly oblivious at times, but he always seemed to know when he _should_ at least be aware, even when he was not. It was a surprise that William hadn’t given him some sort of speech to recite, or a letter to read from, because he would certainly have a rather anal list of concerns and complaints when Grell re-entered the office. No doubt William had found a legitimate reason to call a state of emergency, one that _didn’t_ involve his unproven suspicions. If the higher-ups questioned the declaration of a state of emergency, or in such a state why an employee such as Grell – too far down the totem pole to count as any _real_ use – had to be called in, or why it took Ronald to do so, especially when they could ill afford to spare him . . . well, that was up to _William_ to answer and explain.

 

Grell smiled warmly as the Undertaker came up close to him. He held a sleeve-garter in his long fingers and chuckled slightly, and waved the article in front of the redheaded man’s face. It was an almost teasing gesture, but light-hearted and somehow friendly, and then – with a gentle gesture far removed from William’s coldness and Sebastian’s cruelty – he tied the garter around Grell’s arm. It was rather surprising and ever so tender. He felt just like Cinderella with her prince placing the slipper upon her foot . . . well, her _arm_ as the case may be!

 

It was also just so _perfect_ when the Undertaker took the arm in his hand, his grip firm and yet gentle, and then – when the garter was tied – he asked for the lady’s hand with a tone of consideration and respect, before placing a soft kiss to the gloved digits. Grell blushed and pressed his spare hand to his beating breast. His mouth parted slightly in a wide smile, his eyes glistened over with sheer love and adoration. No man had ever taken such good care of him before! It didn’t even matter that Ronald was blushing nervously at the sight of them, albeit whilst muttering about clichés, because this – _this very moment_ – was what heaven surely was!

 

“I am sure our Grell will go willingly,” the Undertaker said with a little chuckle. “Do we have but a few small minutes to say goodbye? You wouldn’t deny the lovers their last embrace, would you? You must know the feeling of separation, surely.”

 

“Well, okay, I guess. Just five minutes though, all right? And you better not hurt Miss Sutcliff either! If I see you so much as look at her wrong -!”

 

“Oh, this won’t hurt at all, nor will it take five minutes.”

 

“Huh?”

 

The Undertaker reached out to take a lock of Grell’s hair.

 

It was a strange and very intimate gesture, especially the way his long fingers stroked against the redheaded man’s cheek so kindly and so lovingly, but it seemed that his real intention was to bring a lock of hair out towards him. He tugged and tweaked it a few times, smoothing it out as he went, and then – so skilfully – he began to plait the long lock in the exact same style of his own silver hair. Grell tried to remember anyone else with such a style. No one came to mind.

 

“O-oh?” Grell asked with a blush.

 

“What?” Ronald said, as he scratched his ear.

 

Grell held back the urge to roll his eyes. It was sometimes difficult to remember that Ronald was incredibly strong in his own right, perhaps the most mature in their entire department save for Will, and yet he would – at times like this – act so _dense_ that it was impossible to forget that he was still a child at heart. How could one man be so blind to love and its motivations? It made Grell despair.

 

“Er, are you all ready now, Miss Sutcliff?”

 

“Huh? Oh, yes, I’m ready!”

 

“Wait, isn’t that the same plait that you wore the other day?” Ronald asked, as he swung his arms behind his back and clasped his hands behind his neck. “I think that might make Mister Spears a bit suspicious. I mean there can’t be many people who wear their hair like that, plus what with those bruises on your neck and all . . . do you think it’s wise to wear that?”

 

“Oh, you just don’t know the meaning of _true love_! A gentleman who knows how to _bruise_ without _breaking_ is one to keep, _especially_ when he can use his hands to _manipulate_ with such _dexterity_.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s the ‘manipulating’ that I’m worried about . . .”

 

“Do I _look_ like a lady easily fooled to you?”

 

“Well . . .”

 

Ronald gave a strange expression. He looked to one side, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look his senior in the eye, and then turned his gaze to the Undertaker instead. Grell couldn’t tell what it was the younger man was looking for . . . validation, disagreement, or perhaps even proof of his character . . . but it seemed that, whatever he looked for in the eerie mortician, he couldn’t find it. His eyes narrowed. His lips gave that shaky half-smile. He clearly was unsettled.

 

He eventually gave a long sigh in defeat – whilst the Undertaker merely chuckled – and gave Grell a very pitiful and concerned stare. It wasn’t a look that Grell approved of. It made it seem that Grell had no idea what he was getting himself into, or that he had no real understanding of the older man’s feelings, and to be second-guessed by a _child_ was just a tad too condescending to endure! True, it wasn’t as if the Undertaker was the clearest of men, but he _did_ love Grell, and of that Grell was certain! No man could understand another so perfectly – make love so considerately – unless they were head-over-heels in love with their partner! Grell felt truly lucky, even if Ronald were somewhat annoying and interrupting his private time.

 

“I guess not,” Ronald muttered. “Still, I don’t trust him, Miss Sutcliff.”

 

“No one asked _you_ to trust him, did they? Let’s just go. William will have our heads if we’re late, and trust me when I say that I _need_ my head . . . the _head_ is the best part of _any_ man! N-not that I am a man, but – _oh, forget it_. You lead the way.”

 

“Ah, my lady,” the Undertaker interrupted, “you are forgetting something.”

 

“I am? What’s that then?”

 

“This.”

 

The Undertaker pulled Grell by his wrist and placed a kiss upon his lips. It was a rather chaste action, one that wasn’t fuelled by lust or control, and it took Grell by such surprise that he couldn’t even return the gesture. He blushed wildly as those lips pressed against his. Ronald groaned loudly, almost exasperated of such a display of affection, but Grell didn’t care . . . he tried to kiss back, lost in the loving display, but the Undertaker merely pulled away with a chuckle. Grell tried to reach back out for him, but Ronald grabbed him by his wrist and tugged him away, leaving the two lovers separated. It had been such a romantic kiss as well!

 

“Come on, Miss Sutcliff, I don’t trust him. We need to get back.”

 

“R-right, you’re right! Ah, well, goodbye, my love!”

 

“Goodbye,” the Undertaker said, “Grell.”

 

Grell was still blushing as Ronald grabbed him and teleported them out of the room. He was there one moment and gone the next, almost like the mortician himself or the dolls he created, and he couldn’t help but let out a low chuckle as the pair vanished out of his sight. There would be no doubt that he would see them again, although he hoped that it would be more for social and romantic reasons on Grell’s part, because – as much as he adored Grell – he didn’t wish to find the man lurking at Weston or interfering with his plans . . .

 

The parlour felt rather quiet without the other man, and he felt vulnerable and exposed without his lockets . . . his mind was in many places, with much to consider, and yet he couldn’t help but to be drawn back to Grell time and time again. The redheaded man was just so unique, so interesting, and yet a potential hazard later on when things finally came together. The Undertaker had never considered such a potential risk before, but now he could think of nothing else.

 

He reached down to rip away the red sheets with a chuckle, revealing the grey floor underneath. It felt strange indeed for the man with grey hair – dressed all in black – to be carrying such vivid and crimson sheets . . .

 

Red and silver . . . Grell and the Undertaker . . .

 

_Hunter and the hunted._

 

 


End file.
